Disintegration of Time
When the kindling was gone
the calendars were first to go.
I counted days through the slow stir
of moon phases.
The books I kept to plot my progress
through time stood hard
in the absence of wood,
crackling and hissing only to regret
the fleeting moment.
Watches were no good
when I only tabbed the great peels of paint
falling from the house like dead skin.
I sold the peels to children
who brandished them like feathers
for coffee cans full of pennnies.
And sometime in the night
the clocks retreated of their own accord,
left blank those places between pictures
where I gauged angle and the cast of shadow.
When nothing remained but the mountains
and the ever forward march of me,
I gave myself to the sky
atomic brick by atomic brick.
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