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There is no thing beautiful about a clock
Collectors of clocks do not understand time,
The way it stretches like tendrils, desperate for sunshine,
The way it schools and zig-zags,
Avoiding the jaws of Things that are Bigger -
Bigger Things, intent on nows and tomorrows,
Sweeping in and leaving trails of sorrows
And elusive joys, like breadcrumbs inviting you
Backwards and forward and forward and backwards.
No, there's nothing beautiful about a clock,
And if I had Time again, I'd make them all stop.
The gridsmiths of days know nothing of time,
All those calendar girls and men
And kittens and flowers, harbinging on death,
They're oh so benign inside the monster that drives them,
All scarred and withered and blind and lumbering
Between its next meal and a safe place to hide,
Its wounds leaking trails forth and behind it,
Behind it and forth.
No, there's nothing beautiful about a clock,
And if I had Time again, I'd make them all stop.
