hear the stroke
of that not so grand father clock as
the slow heavy hour hand dawdles;
the wrinkles and blood clots,
burn marks and liver spots,
tracing an antiquated vestige;
measuring yet impetuous
as it carries and weights and wags its trembling finger.
and its face twists and turns,
a labyrinth from the ancients,
a Charon’s obol lodged to its nose.
and its wasted skin groans in echoes
in the living room, down the hallway, up the stairs
to my bedroom. to my roomless bed.
the stroke of a clock,
as the rest of the house trembles
and i’m here in my bed
under the covers and sheets
the world unshut; and too outspoken.