Swallow a time capsule.
Recite a spell to beat out time.
Breathe, beat, fidget; wait for a time.
Find myself too soon on time. Time
slows; space quickens; thought thickens.
Lose consciousness. Win just in time
the flower. Knead the dough to make
the bread for a ticket to the show.
Listen to the bee buzz. Time
no sooner is than time was. So
seek the gift allowing the
present to open, the bee
to wing away a way to hide
by the skin of the teeth the
sweet every moment taken. Awake
at a wake for my own afterbirth –
what a gas! Coffin-lid solid. Now,
who’s that witch in the front row
coughin’? Stake her heart quick.
Make no mistake, before she takes
you for a ride inside the capsule gulped
at the start of this our now-broken spell.
Willie Smith’s poems and stories have appeared in the toilet, the recycling, the gutter and in his worst nightmares. He is a retired office boy living off, in the form of a dubiously-deserved pension, the taxpayer.