EINSTEIN
There is no name for this wrinkled moment
beyond time itself
wherein the hours wring
out into years,
only for the years to writhe back
to seconds–
all for which you’ve spent
days on end
in the bends, as if beneath the very tree
of knowledge.
On a wilted pile of bills,
books and (yes) pineapples,
wondering not so much as to if
but exactly when
you bit straight through
the peel of an orange.
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