I took an antique time-piece to pieces:
unscrewed all screws, released all springs, and laid
out every coil and cog together on
the kitchen table. Time stripped bare. Time stilled.
At which point even I began to think
that this was fast in danger of descending
into a sort of nonsense whimsy posing
as deep, profound, insightful wisdom. That,
it ain’t, but rather something more prosaic.
And thus it was that I went to write a poem
about a wall of slowly drying paint.