I always wanted to be that random style of writer Writing about things which have no connection In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance Which insists on stacking things of different orders Flying birds together of different species If I could write something of the ticking of clocks Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day In which random clocks ticking played a minor role During the still life of which a poet happened along And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean; The only task of the poet to capture it all And let the reader sort it out later In the random tracks of his circuitous brain: Whether the pitcher was full of sea Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher One blue, serendipitous drop at a time And where no clocks were keeping time.