That negligible bit of sand which slides
Without a sound and settles in the hourglass,
And the fleeting impressions on the fleshy-pink,
The perishable fleshy-pink, of a cloud…
Then a hand that turns over the hourglass,
The going back for flowing back, of sand,
The quiet silvering of a cloud
In the first few lead-gray seconds of dawn…
The hand in shadow turned the hourglass,
And the negligible bit of sand which slides
And is silent, is the only thing now heard,
And, being heard, doesn't vanish in the dark.
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I liked the symmetry of this poem, and it's interaction with the nature of time and quicksilver phenomenality. It reminds me of rowing across Faragut Bay in an inflatable boat, or of some distant horizon that is immediately present, ever receeding and gone before one has had a chance to get across it.
Edited on Feb 12, 6:22 p.m. because ''. -
I like the overall message but some words are just repeated too much in my opinion. Perhaps that is the effect the poet wanted to have...
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