draws close
slowly silken curtain
graces the air, its embrace
singing in its rattling rings,
singing across the golden rod
humming with ticking clock
burning with candles at this low hour.
my finger waiting on a
milky hand
older than I to
signify 12, the hour, and the sky--
games of chance
while the springtime
tries my mind
in riddles posed askance
from topics intertwined.
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