Singularity

they kept the red clock
            in an incubator
or perhaps a particle accelerator
                                    until it was ready
                                                            to bloom 

the viewing gallery was a wounded cinema

not all of us were watching
even though we knew
about the observer effect

            it was all the same to us 

at midnight
                        or perhaps midday
the red clock shunted
                        a nothing poem
                                    across the horizon of our blood 

where the waters dug trenches through millennia
where the motherly machines paused in their agonising labours
where the music revolved around an angel
where the wooden father built a replica of your intestines

                        though not all of us were watching