The face of everyman’s worth lies
Staring up at a termless sky.
Carved out of stone, its temporal nose protrudes
Like one Great Pyramid
Whose shadow we valorize
As something elderly as desert sands
And worthy as decaying kings.
But the rigorous face as flat as a silver dollar
Only reflects the contours of the seasons,
Itself without a jaw,
No flabby cheeks or bushy brows
Or pruned expressions of grief –
Just a portly needle on a dim and lifeless plane
Above which the sun paces
Back and forth like a pendulum
Traveling nowhere until it dies.
And if we grind this dial stone
And dispatch its face across the sea
Like the ashes of grandfathers,
We would need no other map to navigate our age,
As the crow’s talons still scar the corners of our eyes
And mark the passage of time.