I
The passing hours are injuries.
We know the way time slowly
breaks bones, leaves stones in
the bed. It feeds inside the skull

then on it. The brain’s shaking
legs break first. The bat flies
and knocks that hard support.
It vibrates like a diving wasp,

fractures and snaps. Even healed,
signs of the fight remain, cracks in
the structure, a script. Walking
becomes an awkward dance of

hesitation and stuttered swings.
Even with the best repairs, the
mirror, once broken, will never
show a single face. See asymmetry

and wonder where the balance
went. Like the tremor on the
tongue during talk, these
alterations are permanent.

II
We make sounds, mouth our
“ohs” and “ahs,” pad pavement
on pointed claws and flash
our teeth at smaller creatures
as we’re taught.

We bite as we were bitten and
worry over bruises felt but
not displayed.

Notes are taken, folded
tight and stashed in
creases in the brain. Over
years they build a book

that’s only read awry.
Only the eye’s mirror can
reflect the message as it’s
meant. Only as an image
can the mind know what sent
the fist. Only the ear

that’s tuned to bear the notes
can hear them. Only the throat
in wordless moan can tell us
the color of camouflaged wounds.

the years like stones
grind
irresistible

it is one story

among many

in the book

the years
like seconds
tick away
like water
never end
like age
meaningless numbers