Tomato

When time is empty, it is
not the culprit.
Blame illusions of
stillness
and fullness and posture.
Not the chasing and
crushing as it suddenly
passes. Or
that true still moment when
there is no forever. Or the
torture of
knowing this hidden truth:
You sat in front of it
but did not bite.
You watched it rot
and now curse the vine
with hands
full of maggots and a stomach full
of time.