I cannot, for the life of me, seem to condense time 

Loss adheres to us now and regret is a lingering tumor, 
and it always tastes like black costa rican for the first time,
and turbinado on my tongue- but 
how can we change this? 
And look at the artists, now, with their knowing;
brush strokes, articulation, rubato, oil, flour.
Humid air sharpens what this is and we curve, conveniently, this way.
Seasons will brown out and shrivel up and evaporate, but 
I think this will stay
remembering the time when we realized it- knowing happiness
and contentment 
like the cool fingers of thunderstorms
softly sustained us. 

I remember how we taxed flesh
and rubbed away life; when
spring invaded winter early and fall was cut short
-that un-rest-
when it doesn't rain nearly enough and 
that ill, sickening smell sets in.

We are stuck here.

Frustration
cannot touch- understand
the fingerprints that stick to coffee tables.

Caroline Seagle's Questions:

1.) Are the transitions smooth?

2.) I had thought about a title but couldn't find one that would fit appropriately. I feel like the poem is kind of delicate- I don't want to set the tone off-balance by choosing the wrong word or phrase...Any suggestions?

3.) Honestly, is the poem overly dense?

4.) Do the seasons tie in well with each other? Does this idea work to convey the deeper human meanings of the poem?

Thank you much.