Meant as measurement, record
written in rhythm, in unnamed
graduation, strangely sexagesimal
or fractional, spoken of in pairs
with disregard for division: this
isn't keeping. There's nothing
held, nothing stilled, staying.
Even that which preserves proves
imperfect, faltering as counting
slips from base three hundred
sixty five and a quarter back
to decimal. Yet if we abandon
all thought of success, give
ourselves over to inevitable
loss, we might extend one to
the capacity of lungs to hold breath,
the span of memory tangled in melody,
the ache of waiting,
the rapture of release.