Some ways of time passing

For some it is a hot comet
in the sky of night
one great bronze bell
in the tower.

Some live in burrows
filled with teacups hung on strings
chiming in the winds of chance.

Some recline in the belly of grace
suckling buttermilk thoughts
too languid to change the channel.

Some rail against
the little death of sleep.

Some hate falling anew into a day
of abrasive and clinging edges.

Some gaze at insects
as if to be among them.
The insects do not gaze back.

Some are free to pledge forever
some are bound to live it.