- All of Our Days
Ah, Ruin, how sweet you are,how in a crowded elevator, a theater, a street,should I unzip you, strip youdown to your bare nude heart,I'd make you my own.
You ask for so little, the slightestnod in your direction, the lightesttouch, the smallest gesture isenough to get me lost in you,wrapped up in your embrace
all of my days. And should Ihazard a show of affection, riskjust a word or two, you'd have meout of the halls of polite convention intothe sweet and certain celibacy of disgrace.
Isn't it safe to saytime is the space in whichhistory does its damage?The timeless moment isneither here nor there—violent, ruined by humanintervention. It takes time,after all, to accomplish the destruction that history [End Page 383] seems bent upon. Violenceis always timely. And wecan always make timefor more. Timeand again we ask, is it timeto get down to work? Timethey got what they deserved?Let's face it: next timewill never be different.Time after time our timingis off. And now time may berunning out. Will the cavalryget here in time? Has ourtime come at last? Give mesome space outside of time,where history has no place.It's time to dispensewith history; it's past time.And there's no time like the present. [End Page 384]
Ronald Wallace is the author of twelve books of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including Long for This World: New and Selected Poems and For a Limited Time Only.