Two poems, written on the boat which takes an hour to go from Block Island to Point Judith, otherwise known here as “America”, and as it is December, the noise and chatter from many others present, seemed to be about “time”.
Take time, find time, make time, no time. as if time belonged as if there was a thing to be collected. Gloop or granules, sand quantity of stuff to own possess hold let trickle through feckless fingers falling soft on the floor of a life. Time is no thing just a measure of actions, happenings the work done or not done the quartz flicker of thought seen unseen glittering falling softly on waking jolting awareness here opens the door to a life.
A short history of Time: The space of an hour
The boat takes an hour that measure of space where noise and chatter clatters its voice. That time is the same from the east to the west occident, orient, an hour is in place a bit of the day. Where did it come from? I understand day it comes after the night, but everyone everywhere anywhere said the day is too long. We need to divide and two lots of twelve will be best to decide. So that little measure an hour of your life From Beijing to Babylon Atlantis to Arctic is always the same. And I want to know How on earth did they know?