Clocks always argue for and against.
Halfway fast – or folded behind.

When you say no, I murmur back
in whispers I think you might enjoy.

We leave short arguments on the floor

for later. I manage the house.
Or can’t manage.

9 o’clock unfolds but time exaggerates
into a cup of tea and clover flowers.

A short talk on what’s real
while I pet the missing cat.

Not touching makes us vulnerable

to constellations of red,
so we paint the kitchen. Knives gather

without jackets.
The landscape is spectacle and serrated.

Outside, three dogs carousing, a tent of juniper,
the inverted hourglass of light.