Horns and warts in mirrors
So we crave upon the sublime:
The sunsets by Lorrain,
The gold at witching hour in useless deco…
It’s a balance we've escaped,
A peace our love (as movement) leaves behind
To the perfect green eye of the machine…
For consciousness acquires
The weightlessness of truth
But the universal soup puts it to use
In pattern turned to pattern
Successively more distant
‘Til finally it becomes just what we seek
(For we could never see it otherwise):
The workings of the clock that never was…
What seemed to give a measure to our movement...
But the springs must re-elongate into lines,
We always must re-calibrate the gauges,
What we are moves further from the point
At which we began and will end – or so we suppose
With only a face on a clock to remind us,
Its backlit sun, its mechanized moon.
