I set my watch which has died and watch as the hands sweep past the phony hours, filled with dread at the suggestion, that this is how it always is. You're invited to a school reunion and notice that twenty years have suddenly passed, as my father always said, in the twinkling of an eye. And you feel cheated, feel spent, guilty—complicit. Drifting with the current when you should have rowed. But really it is not so bad, there's a great generosity also at the heart of things. Time, pregnant, can swell: the dewdrop hangs impossibly long on the leaf; the wave holds its crest, then pitches forward. Can run. We power through three sets of tennis. The summer afternoon that turns to dusk, soft lights, the choir of crickets. That passage. There is the time that drones on like a great box fan—and we lose ourselves to blankness, we doze, we are wasted. And time that presses us, urgently as the man his hand upon the trigger, sensitive, attentive, waits—is at the ready, poised.                              We need our sleep. We need also to see the bottom fall out of the horizon, plunge headlong over the falls. And swim, always swim.