On Time.

WAIT TO RISE

Truly an act of inspiration, this waking.

You take every measure—

the right light,

sheer curtains draped just so,

a minimum of bells and whistles,

just warm enough to appreciate

that you are not cold—

to ensure a certain grace.

You don't want a trace of hesitation,

dragging feet. Not for you

the wry crumpled face,

still crusted with dreams and sand.

You demand a clean break.

A definitive beginning to the day's tale.

The sun must rise: you wait

as for the velvet curtain to go up.

The applause of birds— perfection.

You have been dreaming of this breakfast.

A careful affair, a concoction, a confection,

ponder your reflection— this,

your brush with resurrection.

Dear, bright morning star,

still far to travel, break your fast

but break it gingerly,

or tenderly. You've many hours

still to ravel round that skein of yours.

Only the beginning,

only the next beginning,

only the finest beginning so far,

this wan and winsome morn.

DEAD ZONE

I work in a dead zone.

Signals don't just go silent,

they evaporate.

Not by choice, not my idea

to spend hours here, wondering

whose voice today

intent on penetrating void.

All I can do, keep time, keep time—

who wants it?

The extra tic, hollow and frenetic,

clinging to hip, to wrist,

eyes drawn upward by its circling,

hidden gears pull strong as tides.

Time and tide:

Whither and whence 

this interference?

Clock-punchers, half-hour lunchers,

sterility of 40 hour weeks.

Our square sprawling bodies,

directions quadrant:

weak before the circle

we drew ourselves in sand

that asks us nothing.

It was the nervous tic

of our own hands

that gave us this:

I'll never find your voice

in all the signal chaos mist

but by the grace of satellite

and microchip, my surety

rests alert and tender in 16:56.