Time Keeps Constant, Not Me.

I listen to Gillian Welch tonight.  She slows things down.  I try not to let my thoughts get too far ahead of me.  They seem to glisten lately, with a lubricant that keeps them smooth, liquid, unable to hold even if I wanted.  And when I grab hold of that ineffable drop, it is a jump into a mountain creek-filled pond in April; brisk, submerged, flailing, unable to breathe; and there are visions--no full reenactments--in condensed time, of college graduation, 10th birthday party, moving across the country, the face of a friend, the dew on my cro-moly miyata winter road bike at 3am under full moon of early pitched spring and howling drunkeness; and there is a smile, and it is lost, and I'm scared about that, the loss, and the thought moves on from me, a shudder in the door frame, and the cro-moly moon never fails to spook me, as I lay in doctors offices, at government jobs, and fill the time until the next weekend.