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Ira Desmond
Poems
Jan 2021
A Clock
A clock
is not a thing
that shows us the passage of time;
a clock
is a primitive device that moves
at a fixed rate while time passes all around it.
Time
was drawn and quartered
by the clock. It used to be an endless horizon in all directions,
but it was violently
partitioned into a grid system
in order to make it easier for those with power
to control
those without power. Clocks are
perverse. Clocks are capitalism. Clocks
**** nature
without natureβs consent. We rightly complain
about the partitioning and deforestation of wild lands,
of the Amazon,
and yet we are not outraged
at the partitioning and deforestation of time. There is
a reason
why one feels out of sync
with the natural Earth. There is a reason why one
cannot sleep
through the night. There is
a reason why the years feel like they are
slipping away
from us. Time is not
sand in an hourglass. Nor is it an etching demarcating
the position
of a shadow cast by a cone. Nor is it
the rate at which an electrified quartz crystal oscillates.
Rather,
time moves at the speed
of experience. There is simply nothing more
to it:
A morning fog lifts.
A bird lands on a dying tree on the far side of a river.
A frog leaps from a rock and disappears with a quiet splash.
A child dozes off while reading.
The world becomes dark.
A white-hot meteor streaks across a frozen winter sky.
#time
#clock
#capitalism
#nature
#experience
#life
#perception
Written by
Ira Desmond
39/M/Bay Area
(39/M/Bay Area)
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