DEATH AND THE CLOCK

Slow I go like the evening
considering a memory
from my life, now forever
mine alone.
And on the cypress, which is death,
I rest my body. I gaze upon
the whitewashed walls,
and dream.
The sun falls on the metal
bars, and slowly signs
a moving shadow on the wall.
I close my eyes. A breeze
lifts, twisting leaves,
grazing my brow. I open
my eyes once more.
On the wall
the dark evening
builds its nest.
Nothing visible pulses,
moves.
The sea and countryside fall silent.
Slowly,
the heart
turns, it signals
the hours of night.
Distant stars shine.
The heart sustains
a dead man, now without a face;
like the living,
under the earth he lies,
waiting.