Crept

How slow it all is, at least
Most of it, most of the time,

Time, too, each small pulse, each tick,
Each dragged out gone-out-and-back.

The last star fades in the grey
And half-blue dome at a rate

Too slow to spot that split sec
When it’s there, not there the next.

It would be that way, were we
Beasts with brains more quick than our own—

If not the last star, then blips
Of change such minds could care for.

It’s all slow, and then it’s not.
Then it’s not, not at all. Else.