Chronicles of the Clock

Frail, time-warped seconds

Accumulate in drops of dew.

Sky sung seashells 

string together drops of rain.

The necklace is moist, and circles

around my neck like a snake.

The old dog sleeps by the window

ready to bark at any passing ghost.

His eyes droop 

like tired flowers

clinging, clinging to their final Sun.

My shrinking, shrapnel brain

bursts open 

with green lightning.

It was not a ghost, but a volcano

that ran across the yard,

it’s molten roses turned the green grass

black, the sky, 

bellowing, bellowing

like a hungry crocodile.

The days are piling up, knee high 

in the mud, where the garden 

used to be, before the gardener died. 

I went to the thrift store

and bought a fistful of dust

that was once a rainbow.

The old socks are growing

eyes through the holes

in the cotton.

Watching my steps, they whisper to one another,

”Yeah he is going nowhere.”

The big one says, “Well of course, that’s where he was born.”

My coffee was hot, like sipping

On the Sun’s blood.

The morning was loaded

with big clouds, a peach sunrise, and the smell

of freshly mowed grass.

All the landscapers with their weed eaters

buzzed around

like diligent little bees,

until noon, when they turned

to puddles of sweat.

On the side of the road

two furious crows 

fought over 

the remaining 

piece of moonlight.