The contractions of now

The past, the past,

the rigid place of regret

that bears down like childbirth,

but nothing is born except

the delicate taste of bitterness.


And the future is just a whim

of fancies dreamed and what

may be on another day

that also bears down

but from the other way.


So I live here in the only

place I can really  be,

right here in the contractions

of the living, breathing, now.