So This Is It

the fine wood and brass

ship's clock by schatz

stored in a box since my father's

passing and the selling of

his unkept house is up

on the windward wall

of my first-floor hall

i hung it weeks ago

after a kerfuffle with a stranger

in a vainglorious attempt

to reshape time and space

to restore a sense of order

my dad never was a sailor

and so it goes for me

now it rings the watch

through a four-hour

cycle of eight bells

that echo through

each hollow level

                  *

i can see through

the security monitor

to my endless amusement

how a spider has once again

woven another near perfect web

across one of the outside cameras

through which i peer unseen

into the midnight yard

where the occasional rabbit

eats my garden flowers

if i did not know better

i might inquire whether

this spun net of silver light

is for keeping in or keeping out

                  *

of late the care

of my blind dog

adds a deep texture

a slower pace to the love

that comes with loving

another being

creates a haunting vista

for the nighttime vigil

where time both speeds up

and slows down despite the

measured ringing of these

nautical chimes

where will she go

this gentle beast

where will i be

i sometimes wonder

when this episode is over

                  *

guests are destined

to arrive in an hour

for a scheduled visit

but for now the house

is still the rooms are filled

with what's predictable

and wholly familiar

i've carefully cleaned

and arranged the place

and the trappings and

conveniences of modern

life to fit a certain age

to ease any tumble

from misadventure

                  *

each morning my mouth

embodies silence

my soul appropriates

my eyes to allow

the seeing of the world

without remarks

despite the remaining

hopes and fading aspirations

and my dreams of waking

i am beginning to get that

this may be the final shape of it