For Jennifer

Time sleeps in a test tube,

coils silently under the

noses of the sleep-deprived and weightless.

Sophocles heard it skirting the

boundaries of his doorways,

closed his eyes, prayed for sight,

and clicked his heels three times.

Time holds a lot of rain,

like a long-distance telephone call.

Take care not to pick up, but the

ring will find a way to

poke its narrow beak through the

crack of your window.

Time took you when you were

young and left a single pubic hair

as a reminder, a reality which wakes you up

every morning in the form of a colorless

television set in the bathroom.

Time digs a hole into the skull,

scooping out soft sweet

brain-tissue on the way to the

hollow cavern of heartstrings.

Time stops at the frontiers of your fingertips.