Or this watch was once on my wrist,
the shards of its glass now many
and sharp like candle flames,
the metal disc, still polished,
the only surviving tray
of a shattered house.
Tiny gears lay scattered,
unmeshed, like false teeth
moulded by nimble fingers
swept off the table.
The leather straps are tongues
under different beds, unable
to choke on hair,
gathering dust, dryness,
incapable now of tasting
the abuses of daylight.
These numbers are threatening me,
surrounding my feet, these ants,
abdomens deformed, antennas
perverse, prodding, asking little questions.
I cannot find the hands,
the minute hand, the hour, the moment
the door closed, the hands pulling it shut.
Something's in my gut, biting,
a thing pointed, moving in my lung.
You can hear this.
My heart is ticking.