The threatening nature of
                             artificial objects,
                             not snow dropping from pines,
                             nor windows shattered with frost

but the flight of keys and bells,
                            and all that begs for
                            subtle asides,
                            all that is malevolent for this,

all that falls,
                     that disobeys my hands,
                     those white apes mapped
                     with the views of the Via Dolorosa

all things that make my dry box spin,

my body does not follow me,
                     I often seem to look
                     over my shoulder

at the dark detective of age.