way the second
hand of the clock
stalls
for its small
eternities,
as if resting—
as if catching its base-
sixty breath
upon chagrined completion
of its
herculean task—
then stutters
forward again
with a jolt
as if coerced—
as if enslaved
to time's accretion
with no will
or countenance left
for revolt—
inspires less
impatience than
dismay, and less regret
than a softening
to sympathetic amity
toward death.
