The Worm of the Hours Mark
Barrett
The worm of the hours has turned utterly sour,
and
we
suck on dry tongues
with our faces
all
dour;
waiting for the sun to turn its
shadow
and open the flowers; glistening drip-drop
of water clocks, still
the bell in the tower
will
chime
not,
perhaps the machinery is
clogged up or stopped
by invisible hands, or
unknown powers
which none understand, but are nonetheless crawling as the
worm of the
hours.
