Once as a child and only once I walked
into the past time of their making, those godlike ones
so unappeasable so separate at one
in a tangle of sunlight on the riddled sheets.
She lay, open to my knowing. On her belly,
bare, his finger played. And the branch
of its shadow foundered to a darker shade
moss damp and pearled with honey.
I closed the door. The time was one o’clock
I noted on the garden sundial’s face
following its triangle of dark
down from the gnomon to the I engraved.
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