the clocks in constant flux
inch towards ante meridiem.
the display stands still
displaying palindromes
in tinned fish.
sterling
heaven-sent parallels
sinking in
perfect synchronicity baited with the promise of dreams
descents marked by bells ringing
providential significance
in opalescent numerals
packed in oil at attention
announcing possibilities infinite.
In the span of a minute I can spin a yarn
or cast a line, momentarily certain it will catch.
if nothing else, for a moment
be sure its image will stare back
like eyes from afar.
