Ritualistically

like fingers slide

along rosary beads,

 

I worry the minutes,

feel the grain

of the past,

 

then shift between

decades and days

as if idly shuffling

 

a tarot pack. I heft

each moment’s density

tasting the cold hours’

 

iron passage

like blood clots

which slowly drop

 

from bones

strung across

a killing floor.

 

(October 3, 2018)