Science, Time and one Ancient Love Story
Sean Farragher

Every ritual speaks apogee and perigee.
Dull mathematics precisely drawn to add
one second to the Universal clock, which is --
more warning than ceremony. Think of it.
The spinning earth slows. Will it speed up
or will inertia keep time with a scowl.

I do not want that extra second. First,
it is attached to year 2005, which is not
very productive now, or every more.


2. Love Story in 1957

We live under the bridal floral high soprano
song of romantic birds finding their beaks.
We observe the beak to be hard, painful,
and not a kiss, tenderly given to mate
for reasons personal to species. I know human
beings are the top of the mountain, but
weathering, that inexorable rain covers us.
We watch nature change its own values.
We live bare seconds, no more.

I am closer to death, and further from birth.
Can I see the plodding words as they gracefully
and with rapture make the mud hot with sex
where ass plows in summer, and even
in winter. I remember, how red faced, this
sweet girl pushed snow down my neck.
I dug deep in the clean snow and pushed
that wet deep into her open coat and shirt.

I covered her breasts with easy hands.
She kissed me harder and with greater fury
after tripping me so I fell into the ice
and almost broke my crown, but her smile
that lust, even as we were fourteen, gathered
in the hot and cold of our adventures. We
dipped as we danced jitterbugged thrown
about her small frame and my athlete crown
had the grace of loving birds, great gray
eyes that held the seconds close as we
grew in her bed under the covers marching
to innocent relief and darker guilt. That
was past time, of course. How many seconds
have we added? 1957 had a bad taste too.

My grandfather died in April. He sculpted
truth into my fingertips, and when he
passed my sweet girl and I cried for our
loss. She said he was a saint. She knew it.
She would recite so many Rosaries --
answer mysteries and amend her life.

When he came our way
at the earliest end of winter
we held hands. Tom grinned
at our restlessness. He said.

“Watch the crocus break the ground
when winter’s ritual completes."

We knew what he meant.
Tom's garden held many words
drawn from the broken soil
as a map might show nature
drawn with invisible ink
only the righteous could read.

My girlfriend said. “Your grandfather
could have been a Priest.”
“No, no…,” I said. “I would not be here!”.
“Yes, you would; you’re always here.”


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