sir,
why do you indulge in this kind of
indian giving,
you're as good as a grandfather clock.
used and too many days spent doling out the time,
swinging back towards past extremes
where all the things that were mine
slip into your own sweet sphere,
the letters, the beach combs,
the conch shelled telephones,
my precious lamps.
the absence of these things leave me
simmering in the darkness like a pot
full of blood, or better yet,
evaporated wine, clinging for dear life
to that strange striped ceiling of your night
or your mind.
all this and centuries before we can move
forward, past the mirror,
or my own stopped visage,
the rusted mouth before your kiss.