Between the ticking of the clock
a small body realizing it has grown
tries to close into a fist

He has left the warm body of his wife
to rise for work with closed eyes
through rooms of empty furniture
The fragments of his face
sit before a bowl of cold cereal
with obedience few would understand
while his childhood wanders
barefoot and unreachable
into the music of another world

At the window
I watch the wind like a dull knife
curl him into a leaf

as dark blurs into dawn