Careless, you speed deliberate toward midnight.
Consistent with each steady click, you sweep
like Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, all light
and darkness turning with you. Why you keep
rotating like earth, marking time of each
death and birth, reaching for each hour’s constant
height and depth, your finger tip set to teach
us value of each minute, each gold instant,
we must determine for ourselves, like God’s
personal definition. What matters,
after all? Does it count, how bodies trod
earth? How our long hands grasp for love, scatter
mammon for health and shelter? Will our shelved
records pass or fail after you touch twelve?
Roger Armbrust
May 1, 2020
