Cicatrix

Reddish green is not

a color till summer’s

wick is lost to the wax

and I reap my pocks

of all things to fall from.

I live on a hill, hear

three churches’ bells

unsynced, so the toll

of an hour takes

a worthless amount

of time to fade.

Why is it math

is made of tens

when we live

in sets of twelve?

A moment’s when

you notice time

is seeing itself.