Time doesn’t hang on a wall.
It doesn’t tick by on a wrist.
It’s infinitely more secretive and intimate.
Time, contrary to all notions,
does not flow.
It’s not beautifully fluid,

a murmuring river passing under a bridge.
In our heads, it hastens and halts and stumbles.
On occasion, it dissolves.
It ceases to exist.

Janice Pariat in Seahorse