more haste – less speed
the minutes s t r e t c h out
racked in terrible instance
tortured in the passing
the throbbing mechanism
of desire
the beatings of fleshy drums
pulse off into nowhere
on and on
the cycle persists
the dim morning
cold grey light
seeping gently in
through empty windows
framing the silence
with spine chill –
and frozen sap
another day of coffin nails
and cellophane smiles
of sleeping lovers
far away in time
.
