But now, if eternity is nothing else but time, vitally full, illimitably perfect, and blissfully complete, who, we may ask, first of all caused or produced this earthly, fettered, and fragmentary time, which seems but the great bond-chain of the whole world of sense—and what, then, is this time itself? I might answer this latter question by the words of the poet, that it “is out of joint.”
-Friedrich Schlegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of Language

 Time is out of
Joint. And betrays itself
In and out of season.

Time is not herself
These days. And some imply
She is a hungry self-devouring womb.

Time is past her prime.
Now slurping up a trough
Of meerly mortal dross
–a grotesque Achamoth

But Time will return to herself
(in time). Her bones reset and
Rearranged in living form.

Time, I see you now!
For the first time–
Full-limbed and resplendent
Enthroned over the abyss.

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