Nov
26
the hour hand
where the leaves fall
and the wind blows
and the pavement crunches
is where i am not
is where i am now
inside
in the mock warm
without comfort
without the chill breeze
but in my chill arms
me
just me
once again
insides crying like a baby
outsides just cold
the way progress seems sometimes i go nowhere
i go nowhere again
and again and again
i thought time was more than the ticking of hands
and the missing hands
making it the way it is
lonely with just the one
making no real effect
round and round
it needs the other to progress
at any real rate
instead of 60 60 60
just that endless tick
until the batteries wind down
and it is necessary
to find something new…
it just doesn’t happen in winter.
