As previously noted, clocks appear rather often in my poems.
It was he: master of the nondramatic
handshake, non-functioning plumage,
and reasonless flicks of the tongue.
He was a fan of asocial sunset parties
and slick, adamant monotheism.
He was known to drag his eyelids.
No one sniffed when he parceled
out a spit of land for his dreams and lunged
for the kindest security he could find,
a maiden of gray habits and uniform grins.
Together, they invented wild secrets
as they quietly crept into small clocks.