Like a watchmaker, God was forced to intervene in the universe and tinker with the mechanism from time to time to ensure it continued in good working order.—Isaac Newton
The Blind Watchmaker—Richard Dawkins
Not blind—vanished like the profession.
He or She or It or What just gone away
about some business other than mine
the watch decaying
no spindle, no strap
to bind it round a wrist
tarnished by sweat and dirt
silver plating abraded by cufflinks
knocking against walls or bark.
The big, black hand can be moved
round the segmented worm biting its tail
that marks the minutes on a circle of paper
turning the small hand wilfully through hours
marked by obsolete Roman letters—I and V and X
stiff lines and rigid angles to chisel into stone—
none of the roundness of Arabic
the openness of Zero
the ease of calculation.
Without coil or battery, no persuasion
no jiggling of the knob can budge
the second-hand, made of different metal
its Japanese movement stuck
at 12 seconds past what
unticking hour?
Not blind, just silently gone
about a to-do list other than ours
attending to the biology of galaxies
astronomy of cells.