At noon, I walk by. It rings on cue.
It swells, I swell on cue. I am going
to work, nothing idyllic.
Like the clock tower,
I am obsessed with hours.
Marking them if not with a ring
then with walking away (never
toward). When a new noon strikes,
and I walk by and away, I swell.
What am I afraid of? I asked
you minutes before sex.
Death, probably, you said, and I could
hear bells, which were no specific
bells, and I told you of the time
I thought someone walking behind
me had a gun, and I didn’t even flinch.