the hands on the clock stall at the center of it all, unmoving
everything , stutters, slides, stammers around them
silences bubble up in the swamps of entropy
in these celestially celebrated serenades.
I grind my heart into a paste
for sealed mason jars
to be opened when
the nights
flare up
yearnings
of yesteryears,
to be comforted
with the tastes that eluded
my tongue, in all the years I left behind,
in the bags I left unopened under the bed,
Straight from the planes I pulled them from.
These are back aches from staying still in the buses
That carry me from one moment to another, place to place
The metaphoers escape me
