Time an impersonal thing at
which I claw but it remains silhouette
hovering
azure too far to see and only bending the
shapes on the horizon

§

there is no time once grandmother
is gathered up from
under
knifewinged predatory insects
sharpening themselves across electric
plates of cold
milk who were you to crack open such
dreamhusk and anesthetize my antiwords?

September to October, 2020. Olivia and Zach.
(Interesting to note that this is the second time I write about dragonflies and time, approximately one year later.)