Time moves snakely
whipping around tripping me up
on the scales which are really just trap doors
on hinges, flapping shut to the rhythm of
the blood currants
carrying river run-off to the mouth.
He that dares stand where I stood
to drum up sunlight from the cellar
pulling the cord, hand over fist—
Calling the ring shouts in my place
weaving and wasting what little is left.