Time melts like ice floes

in the sun-stilled silence,

pocket watches draped

over the twig, over the edge, over

the formless creature that may

as well be the painter droop

like deflated balloons.

 

Here, where the measure

of softness and hardness is dictated

by the decay of clocks, nobody

bats an eyelash, not even

the ant-covered red-plated watch

resting languidly over the corner.

and the cliffs, under the cobalt blue sky,

had no idea that time could also tire.

 

And if you ask Dalí what all this meant,

he would only say cheese—Camembert!

for this is not Einstein’s Relativity,

nor the idea that the cosmos hold no order,

but rather the musings of a surrealist

that time passes even in sleep.

READ
Biology junior falls to his death

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