it was twelve minutes past the hour
when the hour began to huff
then puff — at the thought that time itself
might run out of causes and slowly dissipate
into the void; meanwhile — a red rooster ran
rampant through a silent countryside
filled with the only memories that mattered
to a fowl — hedgehogs
lined the long country lanes
as the hour drove slowly by —
intent on making better
on promises made
before; erstwhile time would not be deemed
culpable — homocide not applicable
to hours and seconds and
long deep breaths taken
alone; while these times are altered
becoming more like causeways
floating on top of the deplorable
the erroneous — the wicked
ways of our time.