by Russell Rowland
When the wind is right, I hear the strike
of the downtown steeple clock.
Though annually uncertain of the date
His own Son rose from death,
God knows what time it is.
While sub – Saharan babies starve,
the Congregationalists, according to
their polity, are arguing the cost
of an automated winder for the clock.
Christ be their judge: he was hungry,
and they did not feed him — nor recall
to set that clock ahead in spring,
back in fall — disciples forever either
early or late to church, and some
even singing his praise off – key.
I vote we let the clock run down,
like time itself. When all stands still,
expansive galaxies will have reached
their apogee; begin the long collapse
down to a dot of matter infinitely,
inescapably dense. No giving
in marriage then, or taking in eulogy,
no orthodoxy and thus no heresy;
no past or future or present tense.