RELIC

The hour looks sandblasted

Any maker’s mark gone;
The minutes, blurred and dull,
Their sharp edges lost
Are oddly shaped
Their seconds having drifted
And accumulated; a few
Are chipped or cracked. Once
I'd have offered nothing,
Or next to nothing, but now
It is the first time
I’ve seen in a while and,
Miraculously, still functions.

Perhaps it had been part
Of a long night, the sort
Where it is a long march
From three a.m. to four, so the wolves
(That hour is filled with wolves)
Close their yellow eyes and sleep.
What wonder if the rest of the day
Grows impatient and goes on
Leaving this hour behind?