Hands on clocks seldom pull our eyes in circles anymore,
we, the guided-by-pixel ones, no less captivated by time.
We, the archaeologists of old experience turned architects of a new year,
our implements are senses, memories, books, arts and friends.
And some mock me for aspiring to create worlds:
“ye shall be as the gods”; to one a blasphemy, to another an absurdity,
not realizing I’m already a fashioner—
and they too—of worlds without number.
Worlds without number, create we them,
in every face encountered, every landscape
glimpsed in a rear-view mirror, making order from chaos,
firm foundations fashioned by a new year’s Eve, her eyes open wide.
Living in built worlds of blood and hair,
building new worlds with/from traditions and hope.
Holding hands and hopes in our pockets or against our breasts (i.e., feeling time),
We, fashioners of the deep. We, imaging the gods watching mortal creations die (i.e., watching time).
“Knowing” good and evil, not knowing whether God
speaks Elizabethan English, misuses verbs.
The Fashioner of worlds abusing tense? Is this time?—
and has ever so been—the sin and salvation of auld lang syne?