Félix González-Torres, Untitled (Perfect Lovers), 1990

 

The face of a clock,

Is no face at all;

But instead

a cake of quarters,

Four slices I count down through the hour.

 

The digits changing are like the full stops of my life.

Punctuating my day,

My routine…

 

 

A full stop at the mark of every hour,

The conclusion of a sentence to segment my day.

 

Seconds tick by that I can’t see,

they trail obliviously to me.

I can’t hold them in my hand, can’t taste them or touch,

Yet by the marks of the hands,

I know they have passed.

 

As evening comes and darkness arrives,

I elongate my day with the switch of a light.

 

Although I sit in peace and quiet,

I am still aware of the silent clock.

I can’t hide from it, as time will flow.

Tomorrow will come and I will rise;

My phone will ring with messages,

I will empty my breakfast into a bowl

And I will resume to the tick of the clock.