Horology

There is a rip... there
In the sky
Where the moon
Is pulling from its socket
Like a soft egg eye

Dangling
Vericose
Swinging
Gently
From a thin blue vein

Slow pendulum movement
Like a dusty German clock
Geartrain spinning inside
Frictionlessly
Ratchet clicking
Antique motion work
In need of slight adjustment
And cleaning

Time slowing
As the bob falls lower
Behind cumulus clouds

The tall black trees
Stand there
Spines cracking
Vertabrae separating
As bones of hands reach high
To pass the hour mark

Waiting
With
Decelerating
Breath
For the fragile yolk
To break lose and fall

Nightbirds go blind
As the sky goes dark
Clouds disappearing
And somewhere
A clock keeper
Trips
And bruises himself badly
As he climbs
The heavy wooden stairs
Of the cold stone tower

He settles
Alone
Chilled
Weeping
As his bells
Remain silent