Words Strung Together

I believe that time can freeze.
I mean—if I name this breath of mine time,
transfer it into a bottle carefully so as to not lose
any bit of time, then vigorously compress it
just enough: by the law of thermodynamics
and its derivatives, time will freeze.

But before I do, let me take a sample
of this time, send it through various
breathalysers or chemical detectors,
such as the mass spectrometer, or perhaps
the large hydron collider. Can you tell
I forgot to eat breakfast from all that acetone,
or that I am falling in and out of
love from the testosterone? Do you
think I am too angry from all that toxin
and that I should stop ingesting alcohol?
Can you see the ulcer lying in my stomach
Or that my kidney is starting to fail, that I
hope for much better times?

I should also rake a sample of this time,
make a 40nm flake with a laser knife
take it between two much thicker
glass and examine it under the microscope
to see what kind of micro-culture I had tamed
in this shake of mine. Are there Aspergillus molds
from the bread I had from the benefactors? Are there
other remnants of that dinner I savoured
for too long? Are there amoebas and other flagellates
you would normally find in the sewer?

Let me scrape another sample and send
it to the centrifuge where I can spin down
the heavier elements in that time,
removing the lighter components,
again and again until I have separated
them all into their respective compartments
to see, with special markers, how much
of each component I had. Ah, here’s all the
energy machinery, no wonder I am so fatigued.
And here—here’s the protein machinery,
which is also below the threshold. And there,
I don’t seem to find anything more really.

So here—here’s my time to you before I run out.