Sunken circus lion sorrow
bleeds into the hairs on his brow
in hating the clock on its shelf

​

as envious seconds persist
fulfilling their cardinal vow
he hopes that each hand hates itself.

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as forty-eight hours before,
its stern face was irrelevant
and her wine warmth pleased his shoulder

​

when for hours he would adore
her blind Stanislavskian poise
with a stare that made his soul older

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Scorching beneath its meridian tower,
the swinging of rhythm now
breaches and crumbles
his fortress of temperance;
yearn for the blues of midnight!

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Lost on the plains of each desolate hour,
when lifeless in bed at night
unwashed and crumpled
his sheets are indifferent,
knowing they’ll never be folded.