'Before
the clock bell can strike the hour,
the little hand must make the journey
half way to the hour marker, that is,
to the mid-point of now and the hour,
but first, it must move half this distance,
which, in turn, it must first travel half of,
and so on, ad infinitum,' I tell
my lover's eyelids as the sky lightens.
'Infinitely small, and infinitely
numerous. No thing, no clock hand can move
fast enough to outrun these divisions.'
She wakes, has dreamt a tortoise was racing
Achilles. I kiss her sleep-limp neck and
say nothing. If I do not let her know
that this minute is ours forever, she
will love me as if the dawn approaches.
