Time to clear your mind;
time to become a part of the moments that
string together your supposed life.
Time to listen;
time to hear the sequence of sounds surrounding you,
made slave to entropy.
Time to turn the ground to ice;
freeze the snakes, Walden ponds, sky scrapers
and keep them for observation.
Time to be the sole person conscious;
walking, palms out, through fields of daisies;
as if the war were already over,
as if hate had impeached itself
as if we all, all of us, were rooted in place,
slowly turning to wood,
as if the man in the storm flying the kite had failed:
turned medium rare.