Where does that time taken away, those 60 missing minutes, that lost hour, go to?

(Is it a slender fold in the space-time continuum, a secret note, taut lacquered rib of a silk fan accordioning back down on itself?

If I were to unfold that hour back open, would the noisy rushing chunks of broken ice, the awkward branches, the unsettled gliding-too-fast ducks rewind themselves backwards up the river?

Would ink lift up off the page, black letters a magnetic tangle in the air, before clattering down to the floor?

Would all the cut flowers in the Wal-Mart seal themselves shut again into invulnerable, vise-tight buds?

You have a little hole in your heart, she said to me, pointing to the tie-dye heart on my chest.

Yes, but if I put my finger here just so, no one really notices, I told her.

What impossibilities exist within that lost hour:

(1) I meet myself coming. You see me take myself aside. I quietly confer. I shake my head. I look away. I've made myself sad.

(2) I meet myself going. You see me take myself aside. I quietly confer. I don't take myself seriously. I laugh.

But no . . . I think I have it all wrong.

I am not there, coming and going, in that fold of time, those missing minutes, that lost hour.

You are not in that fold of time, those missing minutes, that lost hour.

You are that time, those minutes, that hour. The broken ice, the awkward branches, the too-fast ducks. The letters unwriting themselves from the page, the buds clenched shut.

I write you again and again, I reassemble you with forceps and glue like archaeological pottery, I shine light to make you bloom, I rip you open like an unexpected letter, I fuck you and unfuck you, sing and unsing you, unwind you like a tangled froth of ribbon on a present, or pull you back down to me like reeling in an extravagant goldfish kite out of the windy blue blue sky . . . )

But still: It is 12:18 a.m..

Much too late, or maybe much too early, with much too much to do.

Monday morning.

Daylight Savings Time.

Exactly. I love this.

Somehow by the autum change I've always forgotten the difficulty of it, and the extra hour, bestowed like a generous gift, feels like magic.

K

you make me miss so. dak so much. are you our state poet yet?

Ah, yes, bongs! Now I remember what I was supposed to do with that hour I lost somewhere this weekend...

Yesterday, I spent well over an hour attempting to decipher if the hour is really lost, and if so, how? Timekeeping is arbitrary, but yet, I really do lose an hour...of sleep, of petting my cats. Never mind sex.

I need to take a 3rd grace science class.

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