It’s not the empty, inner face,
or idle, motionless hands
that threaten, throttle, stall,
that stop me gazing, as they do,
at our morning un-brushed version,
but the tiny ticking, ticking, ticking ….

meters the pulse, defines the space,
preoccupies a priori,
any schedule I might have had,
of endless lust,
capriciousness, fascination,
of waking you,
turning you over, ideos,
Deja-vu of tireless,
timeless licking, ticking, ticking.