Things in the mirror of the day
collect in the rising light
as if addicted to daytime.

The sun also sets
and breaks its fast
in a land of sand and snow.

How many stories burnt upon the retina
does it write down,
from its arial view?

Sometimes never hiding for months
and others never seen,
recording memories in its absence.

Its bleeding rays of light
swarming around the globe
a plague, a virtue,
a constant mortality

as the sticky clock hands bite
against each other
and stop.

Tallied by a different measure
ticking away the daylight hours
for all the earth to whisper.

12/12/01