I took
an antique time-piece to pieces:
unscrewed
all screws, released all springs, and laid
out
every coil and cog together on
the
kitchen table. Time stripped bare. Time stilled.
At which
point even I began to think
that this
was fast in danger of descending
into a
sort of nonsense whimsy posing
as deep,
profound, insightful wisdom. That,
it ain’t,
but rather something more prosaic.
And thus
it was that I went to write a poem
about a
wall of slowly drying paint.
Booya! Nailed it!
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