These ticks and tocks are markers of wasted time,
imagined punctuation only noticeable in utter silence,
resting ears,
letting eyes lay covered
and leaving no taste on the tongue.
Waving forms rising and falling,
chalking up the only marks that matter.
Every second a space to be filled,
each rise in the cog a climb towards a moment
to be made memory.
Hand through hand slower than the one held above it,
ready to catch it’s significance in the movements.
The lines of these palms aren’t for reading,
it’s thin arms refuse to bend,
and the grip rests loose and easy,
throwing seconds too fast to be caught.
© Dexter Selboy 2012
