Before the universe
exploded into the void
I was at the hand
of the watchmaker,
waiting.

He never told me your
name, but I drew up
the schematics and
called you a watch all
the same,
though he only showed
me her substance
and her form.

I began to tick
as he spun the gears with
his finger,
and in the ages
to follow I
found her many times,
as you did.

But at the eleventh hour
we were finally getting somewhere,
you and I,
and we found her
like an olive branch
in a raven’s beak;
in the ages to follow
we reveled in her.

Before our world fell
open like a book’s middle
chapters, she tore
herself out in
a rending of springs
and inner organs,
and we understood,

that as the watchmaker
pushed you slowly toward
existance in your mother’s
womb, I descended like
a dove above those waters
into existance and we
left for a short time.

His pain our pain now,
but happy in the thought
of us turning toward midnight,
and her turning toward
the east,
both returning home
to vacant Nirvana.

Tags: poetry