That bleeding of time

The poet said, and so I've often read,

that the sky is just a sieve that bleeds the time.

In time my love in time and time,

all these cuts will heal, all these cuts will heal.

I heard the shouting on the streets, in jerks and starts,

by video half captured, half poured,

into a camera in the hand,

sing me an aria in sharp edges and scattered motion.

The powerful, half cunning, half hapless,

seek to cage the songbird, the canary

who twitters of hoped half-remembered freedom.

It was written in another book,

the book of fate,

that all these people will one day be free.

That day is not today,

but it will be, in time, in time.

In time the words will be as sweet as dates,

and the breath as cool as clean rain.

But now shouts are on the tongue,

and the maneuvers go behind the third eye blind.

Do not doubt, that chatter becomes a roar,

as droplets become a downpour,

and the crackle of single fingers

become a roar like thunder flashed

with lightning like an insight.

The storm will pass, in time in time,

and who knows what fruit it will bring,

from this patter of words like rain.

They will bleed from our fingers,

as long as other fingers bleed.