Tempus, Temporis

Line after line,

The hands trace the protected,

glass smooth,

glass distant,

face

with a ghostlike murmuring of

a

touch.

You cannot see the ginger ripples that it etches

into

the

surface…

You cannot see the tentative movements laid

bare in each omnipresent tick…

But you can feel how the light changes,

The steady, familiar outreach of

Light…dark

Light…dark

Matching the rhythms beating beneath those hands.

Its constancy, a clever guise

for something that can bound so easily beyond the reach

of your

outstretched

hands.

For something that brushes by-

Even in the sunken depths

of

your

dreams