alarms going off
so our laziness
becomes the winged
  sun of day
prescient
more than yesterday

are the counting
  mechanisms,
the sand in glass
  the hour hand
last year's calendar

the trip-wire
  the species warning
call , the annoying fly
   wing buzzing

a simple thing or
   space with gravity
warping the starlight
into revealing

time is not
  for us, for me,
infinite,
   nor stored in

memory.