A trip without a place to remember

Tell the artists what you think of time
and of their soft and chalky lips,
tell them candy canes and lime
have naught to do with thoughts like this.

tell the brooding fellow not to err
into deadened nerves, congealed blood.
show him that the fruit is hooked
upon the vine like christmas lights:

come tumbling down, the fingers veer
like children through dark lanes of snow,
to catch and claim that bit of year;
glitter sunlight until they disappear.