J. Zimmerman

Time’s Arrow

I stir strawberry jam into my bowl of egg custard, spiraling the scarlet and the gold, which fray and fumble into orangish peach. No matter how carefully I stir in the reverse direction, the colors never separate again. No other mess that I’ve made can be undone either, the yolks restored to their unbroken shells, the berries back into the garden.

long evening
the flickering computer screen's
slow death