Time runs out every
night, around when the
moon is high. It never
runs in, backs up, gathers
itself into a ball and just
stops moving. It runs.
It’s fueled. It pushes
ahead but softly like
a Seattle rain, all mist
that doesn’t garner much
attention. It gives itself
fully, holds nothing back,
is spent wildly, leaks
often, mutters low, knowing
better than anyone just
how tight the schedule
for everyone is.
Not Quiet Any More 