A light-green wall I remember,
in the kitchen of my first world
with the pendulum in its box
and hear the large ticking,
the beating out of earth and air
in the spreading summer afternoon.
Time. Time passing, swarming.
Now like then, with this electric
clock in the kitchen, its present stare,
now like then, the spacing of seconds,
even if that other ticking was fuller,
light leaning on airy fingers,
waving with shadows of leaves.
Time. The stare of the beginnings,
afternoons like unending plains,
the fields of grass stretched
in shivers of swirling heat,
in a buzzing entering your heartbeat,
in the flooding sun’s gaze
and the clock beating the regular
instants of its own age.
An age of parents and grandparents,
dignified, moving without pressure,
along the furrows of a kitchen garden,
on the plains where time
has never wanted to leave,
on gravel roads and shiny dust
and the swishing crowds of cornstalks.
Family. Everybody gone now
and time’s countenance just essential,
time’s fist leaning on its cheek
in the rhythm of its own reverie
that is just a passing and being here,
always full and ungraspable
and simple, simple like this ticking
accompanying the pen on the paper
and, outside, the wavering
fingers of a birdsong.
The ticking so at one
with the body of silence
beating out like a stare
filled with buzzing bees,
so interwoven with the texture
of this insubstantial pageant,
so close and ours, both a same
and further sea.