Monday, January 24, 2022

The Chronoceptual

He never could stop thinking
About the passing of time,
That little inchworm of change,

Always humping along twigs
In a calm or in a storm,
Most boring and most useful

Kind of change, the opposite
Of chaos and disruption,
Little time, the collector

Of cycles, rhythms, and ticks.
Oh, how he doted on it,
Kept it in his thoughts, his pet,

To measurement as silkworms
Are to the trade in textiles,
No, more important—as worms

To the invention of silk,
Except one needn’t feed it
Or boil it alive for use.

His indestructible joy,
Time passing, never sleeping,
His toy that never wore out.

One morning, watching the time
Go, the sun rise, the numbers
Shift in sequence, he went, too,

And the beauty of it was,
Time never even noticed,
Never had to notice him.

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