hours

hour by hour the day does not pass,
through its silence and its colors
the day goes on being its own eternity:
we, like statues shuffling around
upon different pedestals, pass through
the doorways, the curtains,
the alleys, the stations;
the day holds up a mirror
reflecting time, reflected in waves,
in drops, not going anywhere,
toward nowhere.

hour by hour the seconds count
the minutes, ticks tracking tocks,
clocks stacked haphazardly
flocking around differing strands
of moments, various bands of being
cling to moments in motion,
and the day does not pass,
the hours never die, they only
grow, they grow into the space
left vacant by a sigh, left dormant
within the eye of the beholder
of time's passing.