His watch winds out, as prophesied,
as earth’s rotation slows with time.
Her pines inhale when spirits flee,
when corpses are prayed over then tucked in.
The boys are grown, their toys passed down,
their balanced tops have exhausted their spin.
As seconds drip into centuries,
each drop floods the graveyard, plots float away.
Still her antique dial keeps seeking the channel
where choir angels sing:
Your spiral stairs around my mind,
your stairs by twos, your years are mine.
My lover, we are ringed,
we are joined from inside.
She tends daisies at his grave
in her dreams—till her time.
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