The ticking of a hand sounds hollow
in an empty room. 
The auto-tapping fingers curl back
as if ashamed. 

Surely it can't be measured in cyclic sweeps
from swelter to sleet,
the progression of the sun
or some 'mississippi's. 

Measurement has no place
when lingering kisses
are over in an instant hour

clocks are of use for nothing
but vexation

and a gaze into grey-rimmed loveis never really broken. 

It only takes one man
to throw everything off course. 

And so time stretches out

into unimagined dimensions. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed