No moment is mine.
Time slips unseen through the broken
sieve of my fragmentary life.
Not as sand, but as ice—
seeming solid and lucid as it melts away.

I am only ever partially composed,
only ever present inasmuch as this
moment has not passed.
Always caught between
thought—and sound.

I am a living bifurcation,
the now that cannot be except in memory.
But to recollect is not to be,
and I lay scattered in a thousand points of history—
a constellation formed by stars that never meet.

No moment lives
save in partial effigy—partial being.
And I am divided as a cubist painting.
Limbs split in open space of time,
fractured face barely recognized.

Even lovers who
in sudden rapture rise to
shuddering infinity
must fall back again.
Must lie awake,
separate in each other’s embrace.

Imagine, then, a moment impossible to surmise—
sudden realized dream—
when smooth marble floors reflect
high cathedral ceilings.
When I walk on ground that holds the sky,
and the Infinite God confines himself
in bread and wine.

Anne M. Carpenter

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