for almost a year now, the bees
have been gathering behind my house.
the old apple tree is broken
and the girl who sat in its branches
sits in the window.

an empty envelope crosses autumn
like a stuffed swallow
on a dark cloud.

who can stop the minute hand from
meeting the hour hand?
not all midnights point to twelve.
at the last strike, the moon has a tantrum
inside a glass clock.

i take out my golden hours
and hold them to the light.
and i am telling you,
flowers could bloom at a moment's notice...

evening comes, along with the poet's wrinkles.
my prince has
one foot scaling the ladder,
the other stuck in cement