TO JULIE MAYLE
Not the time that ticks, the noise we hear
is often just the sound of things returning,
both the dark and the light, commingling;
together the sound of time, some orgiastic
tome of ringing hoots and screaming.
Not that I am ticking, mind you, all alone.
I manage to scrap the pail of the bucket
of the bottom I salvage - so low that it's
coming home once more. To me every
faction hunkers, tries streaming, sidles
home. But I am nowhere. You were
soon to be my fortune, and now you
too are gone.
Not the time that ticks, the noise we hear
is often just the sound of things returning,
both the dark and the light, commingling;
together the sound of time, some orgiastic
tome of ringing hoots and screaming.
Not that I am ticking, mind you, all alone.
I manage to scrap the pail of the bucket
of the bottom I salvage - so low that it's
coming home once more. To me every
faction hunkers, tries streaming, sidles
home. But I am nowhere. You were
soon to be my fortune, and now you
too are gone.
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