THE WATCH

Small wheel

Incandescent,

Shivering like

A pinned butterfly.

 

Hands thrown up

In all directions:

The crossroads

One arrives at

In a nightmare.

 

Higher than that

Number 12 presides

Like a beekeeper

Over the swarming honeycomb

Of the open watch.

 

Other wheels

That could fit

Inside a raindrop.

 

Tools

That must be splinters

Of arctic starlight.

 

Tiny golden mills

Grinding invisible

Coffee beans.

 

When the coffee’s boiling

Cautiously,

So it doesn’t burn us,

We raise it

To the lips

Of the nearest

Ear.