Get Your Premium Membership

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 © | Year Posted 2012




Post Comments
Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.