You can only notice it from afar—

that even time writes with its left hand.
Crosswords are solved slowly, always horizontally;
the vertical puzzles are left
to intersections and precise entanglements.
Sometimes it peeks at last issue’s solutions
leaving certain squares intentionally empty—
windows for the world, temporal gaps—
making sure that for centuries
the rain follows
the prescribed line of motion
that mountains have always resembled breasts
of someone pretending to be dead
and that nothing has changed:
not the way we extinguish tiny flames
with spit on our fingers,
almost burned.