Still, flat hands
tick time away,
filling up boxes,
making empty space.

I don't know this form
and who it is for,
only to still, and to stay,
and to wait and to count-

the passing clouds
each passing hope-  

hope for time, hope none is waste,
hope whatever it is was worth the wait-

but then there is more time
and there is more space.

It's a long time to wait
and still to see
only one still, flat clock face.