Hours in the wristwatch while on watch
in rainy Narrows. Keeping time
on the woman you love
will blind you with minutes, seconds ticking off
across the face of the wedding gift
scratched from all the fights
this past winter.
Her lover racks shells and grinds them into powder,
and keeps a nesty hollow shack
across the channels, across the bills
of the sandpipers and gulls,
and buzzard backs
as they flock and gather,
flock and gather.
The rain keeps them from nothing,
while it reduces my sight
to the bright windows of my heart mind.
Each second is an hour
if my love is true. Each second is an hour
if my love is true. If she is not,
all time will rush into a bright red point in my forehead.
I can feel it. It’s just that simple.
