Waits for it

when only birds can tell the time
long before the arrival of crystal watch peice
and self winders
the giants who worked the gears of
bell strikers

winding the armature

listening to it breath
to and fro the swish
and pendulous nervous
twitchs the brass made
in its age

can you hear the sand ringing
faintly through the hips of glass
listen for it

if you can

if you cant then you dont understand
the language of twins beside twixt
and each
or thrice

here is darkness plummeting towards
light the feiry excursion waiting
in the chariot coach

the velvet saddle
the bareback throne
swaying
and the beast buckboard of burden

this black pitch tawny with stars
shredded like spandau links
in mud slime trenchs choked
with deaths ordinary
the poppies behind lines
vacillated red like round
disc corpusles

this darkness swooning before
the arrival yet

the birds are warming to it
and heralding its nearness
can you listen

can you feel
each tedious thread
plucked by the clever beak
your skin of breadcrumbs
slipping like time itself

nibbled and crushed
in the jaws of the pack
sweet morself of
dreams

the alluvial plains of
anguish rippling in the
chilled breath of morning
the stirring of life
in the reedgrass
in the dwelling of ants
in the tomb of the
clock rusting
quiet with its springs
and oils

the day never left
has arrived again
like the parellel twin
existing purring
like
shroedingers carnivore