CREATORS IN THE LONG NOWDo you hear tick tock? The sound of the long clock.
It has long hands. One moves a bit each spring.
When young and torn with anger we arrange
Against it generations, all our things.We trace lines in the sand, and learn to speak.
The thing we call now lengthens. Next year's soon.
We say it all in steel, then DNA and fire.
We write it down in sunlit October afternoon.We know too much of dreams -- still there is waking.
So many times and turns before we die.
I draw the lines in blood. They are worth making.
A box with no lid, open to the sky.