Two minutes fast, sentinels question me
as to my effectiveness at winding quantum clocks.
Have I lost the key again? Could I not find the neutron sink?
Resonators stand as rebuke, precise
rotatational energies, captured in a ping-pong ball
energising hypertext clocks, wound-up italic'd birch trees.
As expected, NTP re-echoes time signatures accurately, Swiss clocks
always aglow, full of love,
oh no, romantic strategies
timed as they are for nearly midnight, face
midnight.
A rabbit, on cue, abundantly beadles on to a field of golden stubble
between the family hour and the working week.
Semantics
now that Kelly oh so loves Felix
stagger like field-mice
before their extinction event.
Grass-seeds, scattered over the lower field,
boot-strap into their next second,
dynamically acquiring unseen kind targets
along the herring-bone edge of a hillside's sinusoidal wave
cradling the plumes' rise and the swallows
swift ascent in to a radar's tickle -
- at night, winking lights emerge from star-dust -
tripling over themselves as a collection of real numbers,
chiselled from rock, star-stuff inexplicably left
by the laburnum. Will the Lone Ranger
appear by the broken stile?
Will our bones whiten peaceably beneath the black hill?
Do I want to be the pudding that ate chicago?
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