Petersalt Watertower

You're getting to the bottom of the tooth-paste tube, kid
thumb-rolling the ambiguous metal end in quiet
desperation to chronicle the daily fieldmouse
in the sweet mourning grassfields we would drive
against- to kill time. to waste it.

As if talking about money or livestock.
spend time. save it. we're all just buying time.
no. Time has us. and she gets us for free.
but do not ask for whom the cock-click
of the tock-tick stops, if it does.

I know just that the wind blows southerly against
the bells, as a storefront window pauses to reflect
me. I am seeing twice the distance: to the window and
back again from it. The wind bends my mirror, and me,
inside of it- and I expected to suppose that this is real.


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