Past noon and I find too late light has made
a dial of shadow before me. Thoughts
poised, mid-strike. An algorithmic delay
of traffic angled in vectors but not
moving. I wind up a phrase to keep time.
Pity the heart is infrequently true
to the hour. Jumpy cipher. Late. No rhyme.
The sun keeps higher standards. Even you
move in steadier increments than I,
ten minutes behind at a rate I’ve tried
to calculate to sever distance by.
If you come and I haven’t yet arrived,
wait. The clock tunes a hand now to align
a tentative equation: line with line.