TIME’S NICK Sands on the shore day after day where I stand hoping with the door ajar, idly pulling the wings off flies (I have never done this before,) while the sun throbs clockwork time and I tread the heels of my hungry shadow, wasting alone among time-worn daisies, nicks of time slipping through my fingers: and in the stillness a little mouse spinning, and then a bell, jingling on a worn stump: and O! that gnawing in the narrow ways with a hundred years crabbed in my knees! For truly I have fallen for a play of hands, fish in glove and hand in water. How sweetly he fondles the swan of my neck, and how madly I clutch the bull of his head! Time’s nick is in our nutshell, cup and lip, till the crack of doom
(1945)