The sun
a memory at eight
urrendered collapse to sheets
before the clock could even contemplate
the closing of the shops and empty streets
now the chime—a solitary stroke—
a cold metallic
one against the wall
I am the only consciousness awoke
standing where the deepest shadows fall
it is not Pessoa’s four that I await
for four is nearly dawn
a neighbor’s light
I am the sentry at the graveyard gate
the accidental ghost of middle-night
the vessel body purged and dry
my mind
a sharp blade without a sheath
I watch the frozen moon traversing skyways
I hold the slow world pulse beneath my teeth
No pain no speak no chaotic thought
Just this
raw edge of time
day is a heavy prize that I have caught
too soon
before the sun has begun to climb
mounted horse toward the horizon