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.
