Sometimes I wake
inside a ringing clock.
The enormous nightmare proves too fierce—
the sea’s sharp teeth
or simply solitary confinement.
And so I am singing a penitent solo—
a yellow canary cramped
in a cage, a fidgety songbird startled
by the giant face
of God.
Hours pass
like minutes, days
like hours, years
like days— the seasons’ cycle reflected
in the facets
of a day. My life runs out
with the evening tide
to the toll
of a buoy’s bell.
My fear
of time
must be
of where it leads, that oubliette
beneath old age
where eyes are snuffed— my fear
of death, the charge
that stuns the heart
for spending love’s brief holiday alone.
Joy’s in season. Hunt.
