SUNDAY NIGHT POETRY

IN THE BEDROOM OF GEARS AND TIMING


Just before 5 am, glass trinkets 
and silver frames on a polished shelf
begin in small sequences 
to gather light.  Buttons and worry dolls 
in a box represent someone's still life, 
who hasn't the courage to pretend, 
who hears the ride of the blood, 
the gun of the clock. 


And the clock makes a tick
whirl fly.  Like a bird
meeting the glass, something
in here collides with the eye,
the immovable wall.


I admit this for no one, really, 
trying to reach things I expect 
one day will come, like a dainty fog 
settling over the coverlet in blue 
so uncorrupted, you would
just die of it. 

                                                 --S.K.