Ticking in threes,
unsyncopated,
the staccato clocks
mark the time of the morning.
A rush, a whirlwind!
then silence
as in the cool kitchen
varied metronomes
mark the time of the morning.
In the quiet
I open a door
to a place where there are no clocks,
where time has less meaning
than thought.
And I dream of doing there
all that I do here:
pour the coffee
pace the hallway
clean a dish
type a word
but with you looking over my shoulders
it feels different somehow ,
to mark the time of the morning.