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
then
abandoned,
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.
