Holding Pattern

Don’t stop the clocks this time. I want to feel
each passing hour, and hear the rhythmic click
of seconds as they fall. Let church-bells peal
in dissonant, full-throated bellows. Thick
with pent-up rage and weeping, let me gaze
through stupefying incense at the gall
of stained-glass prophets. Let my fingers graze
the polished wood and rest upon the pall.
When days and weeks congeal, I know the sun
will rise and set, the planets will rotate,
and hands will slowly turn. When time is done
with grief, I’ll put a circle round the date.
For now, I’ll set my watch, wind up the clocks,
and get to know each moment as it knocks.