The Hall Clock



When she can’t hold them (the sheer

weight of burdened hypotheses) they

fall, a ticker-tape parade of broken


pregnant with remorse. And even then,

they cling like maggots, feeding

on death, slavering in the frenzy; she

accepts the onslaught as necessary

(even natural), as a part of her due

for past errors, flagellation

working mystical redemption

on her Prometheus soul. She

will allow herself one hour

by the hands of

the hall clock before she expels

the notion; dry-eyed

and encased in armour

she will complete

the month’s living,

counting the moments

in heaps until her

next breakdown.