I kill the ordered flow of time
in metered dose, with words that rhyme.
The metronome of hour and date
deteriorates from year to year.
To murder marked and bounded space,
the lamp that jumps from place to place
must meet the same entropic fate,
must gutter dim and disappear.
The mathematician of my soul,
who ruled the slab and parsed the whole,
observes the calm and measured gait
of hooded figures drawing near.
Erect the gibbet! Tie the noose!
Make sure the knot has thirteen loops.
December 19, 1996 |
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