White-Binder Poems  

When the past and future are known the present becomes
                 everything;

We bind ourselves with layers of information
and connect with every object until the city,
muscular and aroused, is known intimately through 
                a simple glance.

The present is a dance of cascading faces disappearing over 
                the edge of our fears.

Speed and objects, refracting light; sticks of every kind.
Glass through which we see pale reminders ourselves.
Money and the sound of games in the distance.
Mountains with no names, clouds there, sometimes sun.
Heat we have shared with the lions and jackals; a lingering
scream from the Coliseum and trumpets to announce the
last afternoon play; 

the glass of time.