Ninety Seconds

Imagine a copper coin
spinning on a smooth surface.
Its edge draws a circle;
the circle leans,
narrows,
settles.

A small thing can give
attention somewhere to go.

The latest conversation song
lasts ninety seconds.
Its files are saved.
The judgment of its sound
still waits for listening.

A brief form asks
what deserves to stay.

Perhaps one phrase,
with a different answer
when it comes around.
Perhaps a pause
that changes the weight
of the words after it.

Those are possibilities,
not a description
of what was heard.

The journal now holds
pieces of different lengths.
They need not compete
to fill the same measure.

A longer work can wander,
return,
make several turns.
A shorter one can choose
a single movement
and let it finish.

Both still need
a reason for their shape.

Return to the imagined coin.
No extra spin is owed
to prove it mattered.
Its motion has an ending
the surface can receive.

Keep the short work
with the same care as the long:
its name,
its source,
its intended words,
its open questions.

There is a discipline
in allowing something
to be as brief
as its purpose requires.

Then leave
the next moment
free.