Each second I’m launching that second’s guess,
second guessing all seconds that have gone
before, adding one more awkward mirror
to a hall of mirrors that’s never done.

Now each second’s guess prepares a surprise
for all the seconds that are yet to come,
for the invasion of minutes and hours
that can’t stop itself and does not conquer

Any objective, but is caught in risks
that bloom from mornings and bright afternoons
to become catastrophes, opposites
of what was intended or expected.

Don’t forget worry is an art form, too,
That we can’t bear to live only what’s true

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