Tick tock
ting tan
tip tap top
schwit wak
shill stak.
All units of time.
Units and units and
so many units of time
enumerated in the
swish smack of
fluid against
aluminatic solids of
can bottoms and
foils.
I wonder who
my foil is and if
I will live
to meet them.
The thought crosses:
maybe I already have and
was too unkind
to greet him.
But I know
as the bones rattle
in the bottoms of beer cans and
handles turned hobbies and
visions turned
like clock hands when
springs unwind and places
beckon for presence
without a keep to store time
that I have many ways and
many roads still to go and
it's possible
in the inifitum,
the stupefying
space timed lines and
mulligan divergent wood
that I've
still yet to meet him.
