Sunday, May 23, 2010

in the hands of the clock

in their turning
you can hear it

the sound of love

all night long

through sunrise
& back again

always retreating
steadily, dependably

w/just enough emptiness
in between clicks

in order to show
a man just how
easy death will be
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.

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