Our practice of splitting hour from hour,
As each folds silently out of sight, leaves us with
An opening to a different arrangement, the double-take;
Marked distinctly by the circle and the line,
The irreclaimable crosses into questioning,

As a water jar, set ringing by some hidden code,
Might be emptied to find the root of the cause,
But give up only a conclusive emptiness,
All traces of substance making good their escape,
The setting going on, having replaced us.

With no method such as this to hold a reoccurring image,
Or to fathom the poignancy of its departure,
We are puzzled when returning to the widening breaks
In the labyrinth of our making, one clear point connected
To another, unable to deny the tremor in its signature.