Time, I have hung you in the quiet hallways
as a lantern, prying open your luminous mouth
And you shuddered when I read to you
the unaltered gypsy times
my history is a question of fire towards
your pale, criminal birth,
you are apparent mostly in the roar of cemeteries
not even life could tell apart.
Though you appear as Infinity
in a frozen gallery of sunsets, I am
moved only by your quiet collapsing breath
on the leveling sands that become
too quickly a giant house of watches
investing gray daggers wildly in the dawn
and every so often your powerful hands
caress death with the fragility of a rose
sewing grave pictures onto the land of your ruling.
.