Watching the clock

Catching the drops on a clock hand

Is hard
My knuckles failing, I feel
Pulling the belt buckle tight
Helps my gut
But that space is black. 
The space where the sheets creased
Scent. Is all spent, a finger trace, 
Reminiscence, I wish this
Was making love
Not war, not hornets sent in the post
The closeness of soft skin
Ends, that first crease begins
The topographics, in relief
Become a map of kingdoms lost
Of things I trust.
The second hand does not
Hold the round salt drip
The long hand, minutes,
Are not a spoon, hold no moon
Apple, nor star
The short hand drips errors
Airbrushes maps, as creases slip.
Its hard catching tear drops
On an old wrist watch.