| tiny ruby red grapefruit washing some time away the clock won't hide itself and my own little windows, though not at all empty, will not close. if i close them i'll have to wonder again, 'which skin am i in this morning?' and the glass will stretch til we both have grown thin seven years...cannot be afforded and if the answer is lost, if it is despair or hopeless, the washing will turn to a chore. a drain clotted and matted won't drain anymore. they cannot always be wide ruby red goes out of season. if my skin is of hope, borrowed of song and love, then there can be no shattered glass... i'll hide the clock in peace. |