Digital

An arrow nocked by a god and loosed beam-straight . . . Tick. Tock. The old clock would cut it into fifths, fourths, halves, whole seconds even, and . . . Tick. Tock. The old clock told us we were part of it. A clock marks time still, but . . . . . . . . . in silence now; time’s become insidious and sly and moves on tiptoe: close your eyes and . . . . . . . . . it’s gone.