Always chewing on something,
Always dodging thru the night
With a new
face

Tired of time
   Tools and
      ticks,
Zipping up the
   perished cracks of
   heads
          distracted;
Maybe gone for good.
   The arms of our clock
       keep racing
      
           Hurried,
Hurried,
      Hushful
         Scurrying
            Worriers
Come on,
I want to hear
     the last word
       of a confident poet.

Your mouth
curls
  sweet
     Manifested death.
  A gyre of
   eye,

Optic safety
     Sanctuary
A vacant
  mind sweating its
            own existence

                           You might be
               out of finger
                    reach
       Or a hair of
               Silly doom
                      ordained,
              Your grip
                   firm,
               Final.

Watch
With your courteous
Mind
Listen
With your doubtful eyes
      Give me
          one

Or none.