I watch the clock until the teeth
in every gear begin to talk

to me. As if time quivered in an ear,
a nervous tic that I could hear, a meter

pulsing in the vapor of hot voices
in the cold. As if time could be controlled

by silence. As if we could stop the clocks
simply by not talking. We can quarrel

but the time’s still told: by pouty lips
formed in wrinkles on the foreheads

of the old men at the bus depot.
We fulfill time’s circularity

of logic: our faces are soft dials,
turning around a little while.