Poem: Time as once nothing but twice alive

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Time isn't when it happens - that goes by
too quickly to quite be --
but later later -- then the time becomes
assayable and felt -- its meaning comes
out of recurrence -- as though only once
were nothing and made little sense,
and only blossomed done again --
in duplication heard -- again -- again --
the first time understood the second time
and thus happening for the first time.

If not through repetition, time takes on
its meaning in pauses between
events that when they were were spurned until
they passed into the sacred perishable.

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