Digital
An arrow
nocked by a god
and loosed
beam-straight . . .
Tick.
Tock.
The old clock
would cut it into
fifths,
fourths,
halves,
whole seconds even, and . . .
Tick.
Tock.
The old clock
told us we were part of it.
A clock marks time still,
but . . .
. . . . . .
in silence now;
time’s become insidious
and sly
and moves on tiptoe:
close your eyes and . . .
. . . . . .
it’s gone.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2012
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