Life has become for him
metered pulses of time,
a rosary of sequenced spaces.
Minutes: small beads,
hours: large beads,
decades, days,
weeks, repetitions.
And the numbers on the clock
seem also like
strung beads,
an invisable hand
pushing toward
the next Ave Maria,
the next Pater Noster,
the next sorrowful
mystery.
Peas in a pod,
the seconds seem
frozen and unwilling
to thaw into minutes.
Time has run down;
it no longer flees
toward culmination
toward resolution
toward fulfillment.
He feels
that something must be done
about time,
that he grows more anxious
by the minute;
he’s unwinding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good build-up here. he's gonna have to find some other subject/system with which to buck heads with: time is a losing battle. best care, sjg