#47
Clock Faces
I am a shadow on the wall
who watches the clock move in circles
while you read through the flimsy pages
of the great Russian novels;
the clouds are heavy mats and the snow
wraps the house with cold fingers.
Even a fire only reaches through our clothes,
and our bones remain chilled and silent.
Even the words we speak hang in the air
like dry icicles that shimmer and sing
while wine glasses slowly empty.
The TV's specters waver in gaudy commercialized
showy colors flashing in our eyes;
their mouths move in a muted pantomime
because the dead cannot speak.
You turn another page with a brittle creak,
while the clock marches around again;
and I am just a shadow.
Yes, dear, another snowy day, cold.
And the clouds feel thick hanging in the sky.
Why do we keep the TV on when no one is watching;
I am just watching the clock.
Maybe one time it will go straight
instead of around the same faces.