Meditations on a Slow Hand

Here,
Where I work,
There is a clock that time-travels,
Starting with a single minute into the past,
and even going as far as five.
Here there are so many things that have not happened.
Infants still hiding in wombs,
Proposals trembling on the lips of trembling suitors,
Some soul not winging its way heavenward,
Still on the road, unbroken by accident.
Here I can sit,
Five minutes unaware
That the breath of the angel sounding the last trump
Has been blown.
Here it has not even
Been breathed.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s