I can hear the Clocks.
The one
laid
on the whitish slate of my palm
is a bizarre toy
made of insects
devouring Time.
And the other one,
the Clock of the World
deafens my eardrums
with its fluid wings.
A prisoner
in the Memory of the Present,
I feel so strange,
a new-born child and dead
in the very same second
with the soft sun.
Time
smears the Clock nooks;
its condor wings
drag us
into the fluid.