Fetal fawn of an aborted hour
albinic at the pool’s morning edge,
was gone before I could return
with spade, alarmed dog, my dread.
What’s Time that it hitches
a dropped thing into weeds’ misrule
& gives to its miscarriage wings?
ShallI read from the book
that tells me the inhuman
animal has no self, therefore
no hope of future, also a problem
for the fetus, the determined, the unmoored?
Suffering requires story. So too love’s continuum.
Its Index: You. Before. See Now. See Yet to come.