their numbers a mystery as an abacus discarded
a man needs only a shroud for his passage
his burial
their are no pockets to conceal his lost times
nor are they wasted on dry deserts of imagination thirsty under cruel suns garnish oxygen as a hungry feast
his hours divided into sixty parts by scholars of Babylon
sexigesimals govern our watches
clocks wind down as the fortunes of men are spent then confiscated by death
time is a ghost spun backwards
Flynnpoetry 