The vines of chronos are finding me
Like they find everyone
My face is changing,
A body waning

Where every iota of action
Constitutes a bad habit
Wearing out tissues
Where teeth grit and eyes narrow

The shrine, the chisel
The botched job
Around infinite hearth
Sclerotic vines, take your time
There is still work to be done.

I hear percussive chords
Of ****** time--
*** is in the next room
And I am just a tangent

But move gently off that bruise,
A look, a caress and you're mine
As far as we're tangled
A ******* in vines.

Constrict my nerves
Press out their promise
Chisel the marble
A relief--
A twisting
Of vine.