So love is nothing if not temporary
And shadows have our hands behind them –
We push them hard and dig the scenery,
Dialogue’s own ad hoc mausoleum.
I take your eyes for granite. Watch me switch
Out clocks for more notorious emblems –
The rings upon our fingers. Watch us clutch
At minutes, hours – pride’s failed museums.
The glassy crack of marble. Rust at play
With iron’s age. Collected skulls, a gloss
On bones that counted. Killing time this way,
The finger taps within its golden compass.