There are scratches on the glass surface.
The hands no longer move around as they were accustomed.
The gold buckle on the black leather belt is dripped with white paint.
Company letters printed on a black surface in time.
The numbers and lines around the dial reveal an object in stasis.
Arrows point your way to 3 and 7.
A silver compass erases the number 6 for Made in USA.
Nothing is engraved on the silver frame but scuff marks.
And I see only a world of numbers, once moving, ever present,
the once and future tick of the clock.
Digits circling and stopping on seconds, between the hours of minutes,
where we come and go, long ago.
And where we stopped, in a box, next to a blade.
The object revels in the time,
pushing our eyes steps ahead of one moment,
where it all turns to zero, and we work...
to resist the shock of stop.
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