everything comes with a slow beat these days
the clock is dying
and with it the sense of aging

you are standing in an ancient doorway
asking forgiveness
from brokenhearted bentbacked woman

and she kneels inside the fireplace in ashes
seeking glitter in the dust
from the burning of her treasures

the fire has razed her life and you watch
as her fingertips brush
ill darkness into little heaps

your heart begins to tick again and your mouth
opens as it is time
to sing the hour and the year

your sisters are denied their sexuality
they search for pebbles
rounded by painful waves in grimy oceans

your mothers unearth nothing in that pit
of cigar stench
that clings to their cotton dresses

your daughters are still crying in the cradle
and the winds of change
do not soothe their tempers

you are standing in an oaken doorway
with ghosts and
a heart raked clean in the kiln