Eclipse of Hours
Beneath the skin of dusk,
a clock melts into whispers,
each tick a fossil
in the throat of the wind.
The shadows have grown teeth,
gnawing the edges of streetlights,
while a moth’s wings
trace hymns against the windowpane—
a liturgy of dust and longing.
October exhales—
a breath of cinnamon and rust.
Leaves fall as paper boats
on the river of our hours,
sinking, always sinking,
into the mouth of the ground.
The moon is a silver puddle
stepped on by passing clouds.
We drink the sky in handfuls,
thirsting for a language
that doesn’t taste of goodbye.
But the night stitches its silence
with the hum of refrigerators,
and I am here, unraveling
the algebra of fireflies—
their calculus of vanishing.