When is Never
by Bayo Akomolafe
Benjamin’s Angel beckoned me away from the highway of history
The one that leads to the future
Into strange fields engorged with pollination songs
Alive with banksia seeds and migrant spores
Away from a tyrant clock and its ticking regimes
The asphalt flatness of the human
My weary whens garlanded by doting seeds
A glimpse of temporalities alien
It is already too late, the Angel said
As he tucked me with his compost piling
We are out of time and out of rhyme
What better moments than now to play in?