The hand of the clock

The hand of the clock pounds, leaps into emptiness.
Timelessness ticks.

There's a grease spot in the cousin's graduation photo,
on the walls, works by the artist who died in the dump.

Death ticks more loudly than a clock or a heart.

Death will always reach its goal.

The wind will sweep away consoling flowers from the graves,
in faceless moonlights, anonymity will wail.

The clock undresses me, ticking, my chameleon layers fall,
clear colours mix as if I were
an aquarelle having drowned, among aquarelles and
when it pours with rain.

Marshlands of mist, inexplicable forms,
a strange mute wind goes through the clock, pictures, and me.

There's nothing to say.
A cool waste land, nudeness.

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