ALLAN PETERSON

Whim of the Minute

They matter, but not for long.
Each second clicked to attention by a charged arrow
                pointing to doors that will not open though we wait. 
The hour is philanthropic, the minute a miser,
concealing the otherwise least uppermost
erotic serenity of convinced societies
                caused merely to open their eyes momentarily.

Its very tail makes a river of the fox,
                raccoon a sleeping creek in the leafed trees, a trickle
in the worms of measured pleasure,
all eating their pasts.

Second is the whim of minute that exchanges space
for candles. S was mentioned as the living river,
C was death, 
                body-curl of the life-threatening.
When duration was certain, each cabin was given a boat
                light blue to match the weather.
I cannot even remember were the flowers near the house
white or yellow in the afterlife,
                what crisp lilies traveled within minutes of the alphabet.