Discretion

Where time was on my wrist

I find a small feed.

Less time, more minding.

Wind is blowing through my palm.

I awaken to a wren tapping

on the back of my hand.

All else is so much foam,

its false iridescence sinking

slowly into the warm waters.

I sight down my arm 

feeling the weather 

climb upon my shoulder.

The feed is like a tune that

holds everything growing.

Whether it be dark pressure

or something green unfolding

what is discrete is 

becoming what I know.

Only the faint outline of

a timepiece remains.

Listen.