Be still,
not quaking..
These insistent
drums
that bleat
and bleed out
these nervous
clock floggings,
beating their orphaned
shaking fists
against your ribs.
(Manic marimbas)
Insufferable
electric
wind chimes
plucked by
cricket fingers,
chipped to their
clinking joints,
to a st-st-stuttering collapse.
Each second,
a grain of salt
gathers its sour contempt
and slips
unnoticed
from your rusted eyes.