shaft of light through
tassels, clinking cutlery,
vacuous space
varnished petrification
of wood,
monotonous whir of the fan
and the cessation of the clock
(i give it taps to test
its life but time has
given up on me)
the surreptitious chirp of
bird and the flirtatious advancement of a shadow.
Hugo's crucified howl
in his kennel -
the bristle of broom from
the outside, sun raking through
a mound of dead leaves
scattered across this humdrum thread of the world.
ceramic persona
being formed into something
ephemeral: say a household,
or little stone-men,
a sturdy house of epistles
or just a nook for a free dove.
first to go is the sound
of the afternoon and the next
is i, wearing 2 day old jeans,
starting the car, revs it like
a beast in stupendous heat,
raves the avenue and brings
with its deceitful snarl, the weight of all trivialities, enclosed somewhere in the dark annexes of the compact subspace,
wishing for a crash,
a collision,
a time for smallness,
or of being
nothing but
air, or the clock that died on me, or just
10 AM, nothing else.