Monday, December 12, 2011

Body of Time

There is the way
Time turns its hide inside out

minutes and guts

Arc of neck, then a spilled

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

by bone

centuries peel back their lids

1 comment:

  1. Interesting. I'm moving to your area in January. I Hope to meet some poets and artist out there. By the way nice sight.