See it at center. We walk around it
in concentric circles, wonder-wandering. Hear
the tock; we are the clock, arrows pointed out
-ward as it stands, anti-time. Sublime.
You sketch it all you want. I shall paint
only with word, phrase, syllabled song. You see
a shadow, a golden light, a flicker. I hold its
warmth toward my own soul. Howl.
The sculptor at six? He can’t even handle
its heat, the soft flicker-beat of wick, and will. The
way it somehow fills the room. He shapes
it with pondering palm, a ghost. A shadow.
The architect (nine) holds out his hands
and hammer, stammers on about angle, vector,
perspective. How light is a bridge. How this
wax cylinder might be a pillar. Cornerstone.
We watch as it melts, pools of time cooling,
rivers of seconds spent and hours breathed in,
leaving nothing but wax behind, the quiet
wordless waning of our own design.
Prompted by Miz Q, day 17.