Now I know the round clock
has a dark side like the moon.
There is no way to visit it alone.
The way to reach the hidden face
not sun nor stars can see is a pathway
made by hungers of a body not your own.
These are the days we can not own.
Watches draped on unwatched clocks.
Heart, a horse, breaks in jolts, a runaway,
as weary strokes the treble of my moon.
Cypress eyelashes flare a bright round face.
White noise, and rocking, and never alone.
Triaded, triplicated, threed, cozily alone,
in a world beside the world and lower down.
A holiday of heartthrob in thrall to a face.
A battleground. The dark side of the clock.
A memory lapse. The moon.
The horse of my heart hears and jolts away.
It is the fabulous story of the stowaway,
who hides in the ark’s hull all alone,
fattens, then one night beneath the moon,
flops itself on the deck’s breast, breast down.
Craft loves its flopper like time loves clock.
The screaming, the hauling-in of nets. The face.
So this is the tidal of the babe’s face!
The wave of blood-love ferns its way
under pendulum, behind round clock.
Something about you alone
among my made things: you look back. Down
into the river, in love beneath the moon.
No room for gloom of tomb under moon
that also shines on your vivid, life-y face?
Perhaps so. Lifting avid, left hushing down.
Simians in a second-floor hideaway,
perched above First Avenue, we await him home
with food or stuff aroused around the clock.
Spring moon out the window is a pathway
down to the internal. Eternal. Our own alone.
Of the first days of his face: new time, no clocks.