poems & stories of
JIM HAY
JIM HAY
4 T 2 |
Forty two minutes forty two puny insignificant nothing much pieces parts 4 T 2 hunks shards fragments no handles nothing to grab nothing to hold onto minutes minutiae miniscule smashed together strangers packed together like fish in a tin hurtling through space but no wind smelling the same smells hearing the same sounds forty two little minutes on an elevator together breathing the same air together but strangers moving but unaware no recognition no cognition soon to be forty 1 |
1996 Jim Hay |