by Gideon Burton
They say that it is constant, but I doubt.
No matter how precise the measure, time
eludes those quantities. The numbers chime
assurances, but liquid time spills out
and over, roving over night or day
and smashing through the weakness of our weeks.
Time is an animal that preys and seeks,
then suddenly, asleep, it breeds delay,
grows faster as our decades deepen, slows
and lumbers when it seems that it is watched.
It beats, it hums, its rhythms mold our maps.
But counter-rhythms syncopating -- they botch
the symmetry of clocks. And dreamers know
whole centuries compressed within a nap.
If I had time, she'd mock me for the crime,
who's leashed and leased me with her silent rhymes.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - judepics