Time Traveler

Now is before he was born. Days of air

shaken by bees, crow song probing eaves

and quays. Maker of the future a perfect

terra-cotta tense, a tense which sings.

The absence of push in his education

was unpresaged by the door’s lack of wired

Sesame. He waits and waits for egress.

The door needs only his touch.

Its only desire is to swing. He waits

for it to open itself, as the cloud

opens for the melting press of the sun.

He is ready to rot where he leans, leaving

a breeze-blown blemish long after he has arrived.

Long before he has come into being.