Meditations on a Slow Hand

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.


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