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Daniel Corrie

This Place Is Time

. . . becoming in a three-dimensional space is
somehow transformed into being in a four-
dimensional world.

The girl will glance
into the mirror
to find her hair
is white. The mirror

welcomes her image,
then welcomes
the image of
the empty room.

I dreamed an hourglass
bell domed winter’s sky.
I watched its blizzard
sink and shower
into snowy silence.

There midnight robbed
the sundial of meaning.
Time robbed clocks
of meaning.

A yew tree opened out
into longevity, green flame
of its shape,

time annunciating
through the ancient
mirage of now.

The Myth of Passage

Each individual is distributed along its history, experiencing indefinitely the particular event of that moment. Each of these momentary persons all exist separately, as single pictures in a film.
--”On the Two Aspects of Time: The Distinction and Its
Foundations of Physics, 1988.

The statues remain
in the garden
in the changing light.

Their contours narrate
a story of still pictures.

Light moves across
the changeless garden.

The wheel of the reel
revolves. The film ripples,
its swift current sweeping
the still pictures.

A movie’s beam
of freezeframes
is blurring
into life.

The wheel of time
continues turning.

Light moves across
the numberless gardens
where the statues poise
in mid-gesture.

The statues
each bask in the story
of a garden walled
by one moment.


Becoming is taking the form which a thing has
been intended to assume. Becoming has intent,
yet it has no plan . . .
Satosi Watanabe, “Time and the
Probabilistic View of the World”

Once pawned, a time
can never be redeemed.

Minute follows minute,
burning newspaper peeling
into the next
blackening page.

The leaves drift
one by one
from the pattern
of branches,
eaten by light.

The largesse of minutes speeds
across wide, uncontrollable latitudes

as each life barters
its newest auction.

Once upon a time,
again and again,
the same fable begins.

The array of meteoric moments
falls out of view,

out of the one reality I know.

Out of the distant wealth
of horizons, sometimes we see
ourselves approaching.