Speaking of marvels, I am alive. Together with you, when I might have been. Alive with anyone under the sun,. Or the whore of a Renaissance pope. Or a peasant wife with not enough food. And not enough love, with my children. In an alcove next to the man. With the golden nose, who poked it. Into the business of stars,.

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Day turned to, day, after day, after day. Each day stretching long, arms grasping and eating the next day, the following day, the day before, the day presently. They were each melting together, sand in an hour glass days. Watching each individual gritty piece fall and explode on the rest of the others like man at war. Body parts of days flew by from explosions,. Hour legs and nanosecond torsos. The blood of days wars ran thick. Each day, with no number. Night had gone missing,. To know it was never coming.

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