Three-Four or Quarter To

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.