stop watch

turn it on its head,
turn yourself as seconds slip by
ink drops leached out by paper
pulling black thoughts
that rhyme or speak of other things,
things with wings and things
that claim to be symphony
in dots that follow eye's
into trees that fell most heavily
into each other after another
so you can evacuate yourself
letter by letter like a sweater
that's unraveling spirals
with the years and washings
you've had too many of,
among other things,
in dreams that tick like nervious ticks
until you're all used up
and chronologically challanged