Where the sun strikes the rock and
The rock plants its shadowed foot
And the breeze distracts the grass and fern frond,
There, in the frond, the instant lurks
With its metal fang planned for my heart
When the finger tugs and the clock strikes.
I am that numeral which the sun regards,
The flat and severed second on which time looks,
MY corpse a photograph taken by fate;
Where inch and instant cross, I shall remain
As faithful to the vanished moment's violence
As love fixed to one day in vain.
Only the world changes, and time its tense,
Against the creeping inches of whose moon
I launch my wooden continual present.
The grass will grow its summer beard and beams
Of light melt down the waxen slumber
Where soldiers lie dead in an iron dream;