The clock of ages: "Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed But death intenser-Death is life's high mead" -- J. Keats Or perhaps, the sun's battery spent Wires of our clock, less pink, Skin is like the test of love It glows, it grows within its pattern Errors of energy, or, the elastic kiss Belongs not to time but to life's tick Amoeba, bacteria, slime's sweet split Vein to vein, this throb of light, Blood that mates within its fuel A pendulum of candles and bells or Beams more bright because of our pulse, Our polarity, collagen, calcium and trust Dark noise, the same ripe pus It lives, it thrives along its coil As its template and gift, we are Or must become the wrinkled path, The held paste, the ion touch, The flicker that wastes from birth As glands or dials of sweat belong Not to death but to membranes of us. Paul Kloppenborg Back to the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks