Body of Time

There is the way
Time turns its hide inside out

minutes and guts


Arc of neck, then a spilled
month

I am always in the sun
when the taste of hours
metals its way

Iron and rust against my tongue

Slippery now
is the only balm

when hewn, a hide
makes soft the winter

blind, I live in fleece
and small ticks of motion

my cost
bears up the clocks
turning to feeble and

bone
by bone

centuries peel back their lids