Sunday, 9:11 a.m.

if the night,

then the morning, a brightening sea

now, believe night into what is lost

then hope to lose sight of it

if morning dawns,

then the white sails of our eyes, a brightening

Sunday, 12:00 a.m.

Drifting shadowcloud of a minutehand

rolls over wood fibers, startles my sight

into the first object bought in a country

not my own, but stayed for years

in this clock.

Can it show the ticking of a year,

of years coming lately back?

The hand of a minute now

absorbs this country.

How a minute hand carries

with it no shadow at all.