Space-time
At first, clocks had no faces. Now they're without hands.
They no longer need us. They listen to satellites.
Old watchmakers keep their eye-glasses and tweezers,
retrain as brain surgeons. No moving parts, no pain,
more synapses than stars. Though we move through time at the speed of light,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxsomething must stay behind,
bob up and down misunderstood so that illusion can move in waves,
tides tuned to the moon's old longings, dragging back our days,
our lives repaired, waiting for hand to gain on hand
as perspective lines grow apart, sweep the horizon, then, tired,
fold in on themselves like a map, as if the past can guide us,
small only because it's far away now, so much faster than it looks.
Tim Love
Tim Love was born in 1957 and lives in Cambridge. His poetry has appeared in Stand, The Rialto, and Oxford Poetry, and he won Short Fiction’s inaugural competition in 2007. His pamphlet Moving Parts was published by HappenStance Press in 2010. Space-time was first published in Seam.
Poem at the Morning Star
Advertisement
