What butterfly— 
Brain, soul, or both— 
Unfurls here, pallid 
As a moth?

(Listen, here’s 
Another ticker, 
Counting under 
Mine, and quicker.)

In this cave 
What flickers fall, 
Adumbrated 
On the wall?—

Spine like beads 
Strung on a wire, 
Abacus 
Of our desire,

Moon-face where 
Two shadows rhyme, 
Two moving hands 
That tell the time.

I am the room 
The future owns, 
The darkness where 
It grows its bones.