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.

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