scrape of the clock hand
waves of reverb on bare walls
it's come to this, to the bone
where the flesh is passable
and the next goal is the soul
you keep trying to jump the spaces
between my awkward words;
whatever happened to reading
between the lines, to looking
between the ribs, instead of
counting up how many shards
are left over. Remember
how you curled up your fist
inside my chest and words
words rolling off the tongue
like twice boiled and thrice
cooled sap. I'll have you know
this hourglass shattered
against the pressing face time
kept making at us, along
with everything else. But
I couldn't stop the ticking
because it's in my head
and my bones and my
heart got a hard landing
in the glass sand shatterings
strewn and careless
left for me to cleanup.
next time you visit I'll be sure
to rewind the clock and
have the broom ready for such
unpredictable certainties.