From Waiting to Burn, Templar Poetry, 2006
First published in the anthology Goldfish
'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.