Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Poem # 097

What Moves Towards Us

What are lines but shadows stretching
from one point to another, a mark cast

on the surface? Our lives are based
on such a single, solitary figure, upright

in its loneliness. The clock wags its tongue
in a perpedicular manner, and ancient rituals

suggest that even the sun at its highest
still fell to the rules that govern light

and darkness. We measure the infinestimal
second in strokes and ticks, the heavy measured

weight of the mechanical arm, spun by cogs
and wheels, the rhythm matching your step

as you continually soldier on towards
another, more distant, point in the horizon.

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