They are demanding a full accounting of my sins for the records in their heaven

I blink and half my life is over
Yet I am still making plans
In an instant I shall blink again
My eyes are half-closed already
How heavy the vines are this year
How heady the wine of moments one consumes without paying
The ocean of wine the sea the river the trickle
The drop
In which is reflected a tower
A jungle of vines moving up its sides
Perhaps I could visit a scream
Climb the spiral staircase to its roots
And set up housekeeping in the moment before agony
Had I a longer moment
I could seek the philosopher's stone
Scraping my eyes on books every third word of which is hidden
Or I could enter love
The whirlpool kept in a velvet-lined box
But the final blink is upon me
They are demanding a full accounting of my sins for the records in their heaven
They have dispatched me to mine with its waving tendrils connected to nothing alive
Where I sit on a stone eroded by waves which are not water
For an instant which is eternity
Then surprised I look around at the smiling faces

[Pete Winslow, 'I blink and half my life is over', from City Lights: Pocket Poets Anthology]