Without The Ones You Will Have Ten

perception without concept is blind; concept without perception remains empty - Immanuel Kant

Six hours to get to
You. The number twelve like some center
On an ethereal clock

A halved circle with a diameter determined
By an equation I never learned

Ignoring the rest of the orbit. An invisible line like a knife.

The hands turn
Sequentially locked clock–
Wise.

They row slowly over the face
Of the time they tell. Not even sure what

They are actually saying.

It is just a representation of something

They do not, and perhaps never will, understand.

Movement defined by what they cannot define. Yet how
Often does time say things it doesn't mean?

Even when the hands are lined-up bottom-to-top (or is it center-out down-and-up?)
They are still pointing in different directions.
A high wire spectacle you can only see with binoculars
Nobody has ever survived to cross.

Besides, who ever believed in time travel?

But I suppose there is the second hand to consider

In a lemon of a car stuck
At a gas station slowly filing up with regular,
(gas prices are outrageous these days)
I will not make it
Until midnight.

This car gets terrible mileage, I wish I had
A decked out Delorean that ran on garbage.

And yet, I make the journey. At least the scenery is nice.

I'll have to fill up two more times.

I never thought
To take the clock off the wall
Open it up and turn
The hands with my hands