The clock is uncaring
It has its own velocities
suborbital
The merely perishable
subsist here
in styptic, murkey
scrabbling

A mean description
considering that life in the abyssal
far preferable to the
infinitely hollow reverberation
of the void
which, while fascinating,
does not sustain
or fructify

Unlike our sacred rock
with its private movements
achingly and groaningly
stretched
How else could it be but
that it is the sink
for all the heavy
infallen and
compacted
pressing you and me and all of us?

The clock is innocent of these
maundering crochetings
It keeps its own time
and doesn't care about mine

It has its own circular
perfection
Featureless, naked
It is analogue
to our own terrific spin.

In so doing, the clock
reassures me
has its own movement
and in so moving,
expresses repetitively
being and becoming
periodic and cyclical

like the great cylinder of air
encompassed by a bell
expanding and contracting
and
springing back.