The Time

Is not short, is not
Essential. Nothing

Is being pared down.
It’s a fantasy

Of those who can’t feel
Themselves dying yet

That those who can feel
The closeness of death

Achieve clarity
Or an awareness

Thanks to the knowledge
They have little time.

But they don’t. They can’t
Fantasize or plan

The way they used to,
It’s true, and the lack

Of that escape valve
Reforms some of them,

But time is not short,
And death’s not wisdom.

Death seen on approach,
Like a cityscape

Of lights in the night
As your plane descends,

Can be enticing
Or terrifying

As any looming
Destination. Death—

Actually having
Died, lost awareness

For one final time,
Finally being

Dead—carries nothing
To do with dying,

Knowing you’re dying,
Or being clever

Or pure or wise or
Holy on approach.

Time remains a name
For measurable

Kinds of rhythmic change,
Not the sum of things,

And dying people
Are people living

With all kinds of change—
Rhythmic, chaotic,

Patterned and random—
As anyone is,

Anyone living,
And how they behave

Can only conform
In a few cases

To what’s projected
For them in fables

Of time as substance
Cupped by the living

Hiding some vision
Under its essence

Perceptible just
As essence empties.