the clock yawned a lazy digital 3:33;
it's hand of time beeping a rhythm
echoing stone henge chisels at work.
time's battle-post in hours and years.

on the map it said you are here.
and i couldn't move a muscle.
the dirt of centuries piled high
around my ankles. history holds.

when we discovered we could count time
as life, clip-cloping clocks became masters;
in the wheat, pulling the heavy end of sighs
i shrug, knowing it'll probably not change.

09/24/2007