Question: What does every ancient reef forget?

Answer: That time stopped for it several thousand years ago.
The line resembles a stain on the sundial’s brow. Imprecise,

fading outward, crowned by the earth’s long furlough
from dust and heat. A hand paused at six o’clock:

the hour that brightens the blue lawn, threads steam
from the kettle’s mouth. The same hour gathers like silt

in a harbour where seabeds nourish their fossils-to-be.
I want to break open each minute, eat the loose seconds

where they fall. At forty weeks the line is a rusted gnomon. 
You swim in the noon gap, a metal goldfish tocking the bowl.

Linea nigra: watched pot. Each night you kick the line: 
extensible, impatient to begin.