I
Now the sky begins to turn upon its hub—
the sun; each leaf revolves upon its stem;

now the plague of watches and of clocks nicks away
the day—
ten thousand thousand steps
tread upon the dawn;
ten thousand wheels
cross and criss-cross the day
and leave their ruts across its brightness;

the clocks 
drip
in every room—
our lives are leaking from the places,
and the day’s brightness dwindles into stars.

II
If my days were like the ants,
I might carry away this mountain;
therefore, you must be precious to me,
seconds;
let them step and stamp upon you as they can,
I shall escape with a few grains.

III
Evening
The dark green leaves
of grass, bushes, and trees—
the jays are hushed,
I see no squirrel scamper;
but the street lamps along the winding path
burn brightly—
the work of man is not yet over.

IV
How pleasant
the silence of a holiday
to those who listen
to the long dialogue of heart and clock.