Poem on the Heath

The numbers keep changing,
So long as they’re tethered
To something that’s changing.

Strew numbers in the dirt,
And they’ll only change as
Much as their substrate does,

Digital rot, or just
Wooden blocks in the mud
With fading numerals.

It would be fun to hook
Words to random clockworks,
Tether them to changes

The words neither measure
Nor have much to do with.
Well, but that’s just a poem.