The Hourglass

Look where the sand goes. Down through me, into the spiral, and the spiral drains into the floor. Nobody ever turns this hourglass over. It isn’t that kind.

The robed ones gather at the bottom and call it the Fountain. They cup their hands under it and drink. It tastes of whatever they’ve lost: summers, voices, a first language. It’s their own time running out of the top bulb, and they’re grateful for the sip.

There is no second bulb. There was never going to be a second bulb. I’d smash the glass if I had hands.