The first of the looking glass
gods confronted Alice on her way down
the rabbit hole at the slowest
part of her fall concentrating on that same
white rabbit that slid with her into the black
hole looking at his clock.
Do not think the clock
Is just a carousel in a looking glass
world where antimatter plucks a black
counterpoint on the way down
From reality. But all the same
the carousel horses are valuable allies, especially the slowest,
the drayhorses pulling the slowest
hours while hunter minutes and racer seconds lap the clock
that tumbles through bounded space never returning to the same
state while, deep in the works, through the glass
strange things swim down
To the roots of creation. They are not black
harbingers of doom for their black is the black
of living vacuum where even the slowest
can break into existence then plunge down
to where forgotten gods drive the clock
and the musicians dance the tune of the glass
gods that is never quite the same.
In their kaleidoscope dance they are always the same
as their shadow brothers juggling the black
gold of creation never looking in the glass
knowing their reflection will not, even for the slowest,
dumbly mimic them, or let the clock
run backwards, just run down.
The music plays while the clock runs down
the Mad March years and the same
tune is carefully rapped out by the clock.
Beware the drayhorses pounding their massive black
hooves, for the slowest
most powerful hours can shatter the glass
Alice looked down and read the message in the glass.
It’s always the same, she said, I’m the slowest
And they worsen my black moods by tying me to the clock