Who knows where such thinking goes?
Even going, it never leaves;
it is, as we are, corroborated by echoes.
A clepsydra, or water clock shows
perceptible time, as blood too perceives
where such thinking goes,
dilating and contracting, the pulse of those
whose inner music achieves
a melody corroborated by echoes.
From the antediluvian, a present flows
meted, wheeled, so it cleaves
inexorably to the way such thinking goes.
Toricelli measured what everyone knows:
time, like water, drains faster than thieves
can appropriate temporary echoes.
In the interval, when one heartbeat follows
another, the buoyed doubter now believes
herself unsinking, until she too goes.
She is, we are, corroborated by echoes.