The Passing
Minute of the dawn is the hours of life, you reckon
and calculate in some idly-used obsolete calculus
its rundown seconds
only a tarnished useless coverless calculator
can recount: the thing
we revolve around dating back the time
the wondrous moments of the his and the her
(the explosions we do not touch about but aptly trigger)
expand itself
as we turn back ourselves to and fro
until we meet the same flicker in honoring
A human stain. Do we not see this before
we knew how keyboards work, how chimes summon a philosophy
how a tune says: halabam halakem rumu dumu humu she?
how a dumdum, a humdrum, a conundrum of this very maelstrom
of typing letters e and x and i and s and t
utters a solid frame of sense?
In the next dawn minute, the answer shall lie
in the mystics' rather vague clue:
I am the fire. You discovered me.
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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