When I click, or scratch, or dial the wheel
or breathe out slow smoke, one, two three.
When I kick and grasp at nothing, and something
which grows high as the sky, and slowly as the trees, you see?
How the ink runs dry
and the intent an ocean quells.
That each time the clock unwinds
another mountain flood, rolls itself down
onto an unsuspecting parchment town.
Little this is never free; the known things,
And why I send to you these things,
each time alive when I am found