Mine enemy comes with the frequency
The eye in unexpected quarters catches
Silent hushes, akimbo-armed, standing stock
And watching, winding grinding ratchets.
The grate of time is like the grate of death.
The sound of time predicts the sound
Coming. Moments accumulate the body’s
In corners of the brain. The sky is leaning.
The silence of it all is death.
And death is rain. The raining starts
And lasts these forty days or hours
Till weather floods the hollows of the heart.
Rain against the windowpane is death.
The waters rise and seconds swell
Like the bloating of a corpse. Taps
Bugled. The foot taps. Clocks tell
Time, the conscious counterfeit
Moments pass with every forfeit breath
And linking, form the yawning gaps
Of history. History is full of death.
But a brittle bit of time now breaks.
Ears tingle toward the sudden leak of sound
Ho time, hear near the quaking
Mine enemy avast! There’s a rumbling
in the ground.