The Watch

Any second, the loss... unclasped from hand

and we are falling, in sense and person

disparate, separated by a muted past...

a totem of figures, and long shadows that hug

and laugh... at efforts, so easily disorganized

...lost some place along the green, tallied

expanse, the face of the master mime,

tick marking in space, still, and rolling

forward, by luck, in the calendar

returned back, to me, affixed to the wrist

... the sundial on my heart