as time marches backwards
the sand of the rivers is counted
grain by grain
the tiny holes on the ceiling of 1962 volkswagen bug.
How to count them all?!
and time marches forward
into the wayback of scratchy industrial wool-like material
and now I'm surrounded by paper
a river of paper
flowing in and out of the pauses
in my sentences
flowing in
or somehow dammed up permanently
and unable to voice a
a phrase
but still
"yum-yum"