Standing alone, as always, the second peers towards the minute.
That’s where next is, the second thinks.
There and there and there, sixty times there, forever.
Is now the time to ask about the now of now?
Now begins the cold, deep spring or the white, lite winter where the now of now is now.
Now the push of the earth leans into the old houses in the square, the worn stones, the foregone names, the day in March that may well be tomorrow, waiting to arrive.
Just on the edge of now, the baby looks up and wonders.
If this is the book of time, it cannot last beyond itself.