that tipping point of reckoning 

edge off which the teeming ocean

of brightmorning earlyworld possibility 

plunges gloomily down into Afternoon;


that riving fact of regularity 

impending settling decree speech

screeching backward forward haunting

the air: tick tick tick 

Have I ever written a poem after


Noon and its legion of submissive ticks

named Time are the facts of which

ignorance is truly bliss.

Tick the sound best deaf to

time the escapable dictator 

noon the looming future that can be

ignored, un-imagined, walked away from