Metronomic

Each of your days

is composed in equal measures.

You breathe, eat, sleep, a musical score;

bars of hours, notations of moments.

Everything clicked and clacked

in reductionist order;

a natural metronome

I've never seen in anyone else.

You modulate discord,

anything that qualifies as static,

with the harmony of seconds

continually playing in your head.

Clocks tick in every room

a steady andante of sixty tocks per minute;

a perfect tempo for the slow movement

of Beethoven Seven.

tk/October 2013

R.A.D. Stainforth reads between the ticking of clocks... 

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Baptism

Thank you R.A.D. Stainforth, for bringing my words to life ...

I draw a bath,

an extra holy one ―

listen to Gould

play Moonlight Sonata;

realize it's sometimes good

to conjure new rhythms,

modulate the time-scale.

Embedded bruises rinse pale,

trickle along transitory lines

to the sanctity of the river.

I come downstairs,

steeped smooth and soft,

to find you, anticipant on the sofa.

Christen me with your best icky,

your most sophisticated stuff.

tk/September 2012

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image: Summer Night, 1913, Albert Bloch