The Recalcitrance of Time


The day blossoms out of the dregs of dreams.

I blunder into the recalcitrance of time,

crystal gears of Swiss watches awhirl,

castanets of second hands clicking across

an alabaster face notched with tiny numerals.


At the end of the highway spilling past

Grindelwald, we pull the brake, kill

the engine, then tramp to the base of

Wetterhorn Mountain, permanently planted

on the edge of freshly mown lawns.


Orchards of single apple trees bear a harvest

of six, promise one more by next September.

Pray for rain. Fend off deer. Goats march by,

bells afloat, jingling a tune of fecundity.

All nature looms pregnant with possibility.


I have calculated time as a quadratic equation:

morning, noon, dusk and dawn. Each equals x.

None arrives without trailing the others. The math

drones on in dial tones of dreams. I seek sleep,

a new telos, the sweet energy to achieve it.


How many times will I travel abroad only to realize

that I am standing on the same cathedral steps,

facing the same Roma beggar wearing the same

patterned dress, head scarf unwashed, bowl

of coins cracked? I dig for a euro, relive September.

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


Big Sur