Tonight I Disbelieve Clocks

Everything has a tempo. Not clocked,
but a signature, the rain on the window pane,
the wind steady and gone on a beat
I haven’t caught up to yet.

But tonight I sense them.
Sky, colored navy, but bright,
when moon and wink of morning
backlight air through thinning clouds.

Yes, this is a pulse too:
color of moonbeam and stirring sun,
hum of light waves going under,
creak of bedsprings on fire.

Bootheels on the footpath, simple quarter notes
drumming on. We keep time between birdsong –
not vicious crow nor petty gull,

but warbling hiders-in-trees
or resters-on-eaves of blue eyed houses.
I neither know what time it is nor do I care.
Time is not rhythm.

Tonight I disbelieve clocks.
I am walking home with you.

Daniel Johnson is a 24-year-old writer from Ringwood, New Jersey. He lives in Cork, Ireland where he is completing an MA in Creative Writing at UCC. His work has appeared in journals such as A New Ulster, The Onion River Review, Sonder Midwest, and The Honest Ulsterman.