Wood Clock

Maybe it is the time of man.

Maybe the climb that time began

Began with the first time second hands

Fastened the flow by measuring span

Or maybe it slowed

The noetic glow

But quickened the seasons,

As reasoning can.

Linear pinning

Of spinning beginnings

And middles and ends—

How little they bend!

Remember when clocks went two times around

And hours were blocked within chiming sounds?

That was the first of the lasting internal

Sense of the curse that blast the eternal

Gnosis of now, now don’t ask me why

I offer but how, and won’t task the sky

With questions beyond the lingusitic reach

Suggestions to con the simplistic each

But under the standing is over omniscience

No wonder that planning is seldom efficient

As chaos the lord affords chance to talk

But by being ignored, and cancelled by clocks