After all of this ends, after one
last vision—
after ruin and separation, when
I never talk, never open up
my eyes, never
finish another thought,
I hope I become a ticking watch—
all of time
talking through me,
little constant clacking music,
an uncorruptible
sentinel always standing
between you
and the things
you do.
I could be—the time
it takes you
to get to work, to brew
your coffee in the morning,
to make
a few calls, to undress before bed;
my benevolent, easy sound—the thing
that keeps
you going, the only thing
you cannot possibly
use up—all by
yourself.
