A small and artful gear
ticking in the stopwatch
Your life is scratched by the second hand
In the popping sound of balloon
comes out the baby crying
The city’s night sky
enters into the light and stars
stroking the calendula in memory
over and over again
Phone calls coming one by one
Gear sits tight as a mountain
Eyes reflect twilight of the dawn
In curfew of the temple
a long-legged mosquito flies
Your gear enters another time
discovering the ancestral pendulum on the wall
whose head shaking is getting slower and slower
Red-paint wooden chair
and used bronze mirror, though rising in value
cannot get into your internal storage
and the virtual room where you once stayed in
You go deep into our whisper
We communicate by your pattern
What is the bird on the branch saying?
What are the buds in the garden expecting?
You turn a blind eye, or disregard
with another throb
open the music score, make the chicken soup for the soul, and put on makeup
The completed manuscripts never worry about getting wet
My hands, my body, and my thinking
are weaved into your complexity, your precision
and become my weakness. I start to
become the digit the gear has walked through
be followed by another digit, and trampled to death