It’s been four days since the clocks gasped
into upside down dunes in drops of fog
on the black backs of desert beetles.
White sky threaded blue-grey
like a breakfast lovingly made.
Eternity, seasons, the gas and electric bill
arrived, handwritten, at our door;
raw jaws shaved down to bone, ready
with simple, smiling demands.
They were turned away by the black backs at our door.
You and I, we forgot that love is carried
on the lips of lonely questions,
we forgot to listen for voices.
as you plucked at strings and songs of water,
the clocks hummed and quivered
and some smiles stretched and slowly
Gas and electric, eternity, winter
came back the next morning with
two knives and a battering ram.
You and I, we forgot to watch the fog
from which we once arrived,
we forgot to listen for their final, quivering
We forgot to carry our share of answers.
The door stretched and slowly
The knives sliced through fog.
When the clocks rolled off our backs
and into restful lips, you turned in your sleep and felt my body
stretch and slowly remember to smile.
Note: Image was taken at Nye Beach, Newport, Oregon.