Archive 08/02/09 - (1)

   

Missing Wrist Watch

                                                                  

It's a telling sign, this quiet Sunday night,

Dining out by myself, again,

That my left wrist is missing its watch —

A telling oversight, indeed,

Intimation, premonition, prophecy of days nigh,

 

When I'll begin to unwind time,

Let it run backwards while not running down,

Deliver my spirit of sixty-eight years

To zones younger and younger,

Where my soul will grow older without growing old.

 

A metamorphosis is in the cosmic clockwork.

Pressing my right thumb to my opposite wrist,

Locating my throbbing pulse,

I foresee my life unregulated by seconds and minutes,

Calibrating the hour of its ageless future — now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

08/02/09 - (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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