Room in the Brooklyn

This
slow
day
moves
Along the room
I
hear
its
axles
go
A gradual dazzle
upon
the
ceiling
Gives me
that
racy
bluishyellow
feeling
As hours
blow
the
wide
way
Down my afternoon.

Let us not say time past was long, for we shall not find it.
It is no more. But let us say
time present was long,
because when it was present it was long.
 

da Men in the off hours –
Anne Carson