Friday, June 17, 2016


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