A Way to Measure

How stupid to try to measure
life by time like yard goods
in a store, so much plaid and
gingham and chintz, so many percale
sheets 70 inches long, piled on
memory’s shelf to be added up
on inventory day or cut down or
sewed together to fit the occasion.
Maybe the clear sound of a bell
on a quiet morning, or the taste
of a lobster claw as you suck the
meat out, or the slick arch of a
cat’s back under your hand, or the
breath of a cornfield on a hot day
in midsummer, or the kiss from a
young girl when you are too old to
expect it, should mark your sundial,
or maybe a loop-worm should just
measure you for a new suit.