watches stare out in mystery

whistling past the infirmary
wondering which was the first
to be let go

now the train runs before you
ricochets of horses
damning you in the breach

half past the daylight
out on your turning clock
like a twisted staple in your clothes

C’mon Kenny, God prepares,
“do your thing
that which you are known”
to have lost faith in
the windows close with laughter
and scattered voices of the napalm maple