On Time

by Bruce Spang

Do you hear the soft ohhs in the mist?
These are sighs of God.

They do not matter to the man late,
no doubt who taps at his Rolex:

years tumble forward already 2220,
2060; tomorrow flattens yesterday.

A solitary pigeon pecks at a crumb,
then flaps off, undulant in gray.

What whispers in this mist? sighs
intoning,   too late, too late.

No matter, these are only lines of I Ching,
little sticks of metaphor.