Inside me are two bones
that form an arthritic clock.
I can tell you that hours pass
because I feel them
grinding against each other.

There are watches under
my fingernails that tick
so loudly it’s no use
snapping my fingers.
A good sense of rhythm
is no camouflage for
the way I’m
winding down.

One day before sunup, I will tear myself apart.

When I twist and snap the bones,
I’ll lose the need to sleep.
When I take my hands off I’ll realize,
once they’re gone, that not hearing the watches
makes me want to hold fewer things.

When time is finally silent
I’ll be older, younger, smaller, grand
as a suspension of belief —

I’ll be frameless,
rapidly slipping across this place
like a breeze,
not ever here to point at directly,
known only
by how things move around me
right now.