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Oceanographer
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Grandfather Clock
Rip out the stitches, throw all the rituals to the wind
and tell me what you see：is there blood enough to bleed?
Weakened and wounded, searching the ruins for paper and pen,
I'll tell you what I see：I did all this to me.
I'm climbing through the wreckage of this flood.
I lied when I said I'd done all I could.
I'm clinging to the thread that's sewn through every breath
that ever rose or fell with in my chest.
The tip of the second hand's to my neck, the grandfather clock
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is chiming in the night. The room we're in is tight.
The damage and distance, elbow to wrist and trickling off,
red and out of sight, the kind of loss I like.
I'm climbing through the wreckage of this flood.
I lied when I said I'd done all I could.
I'm clinging to the thread that's sewn through every breath
that ever rose or fell with in my chest.
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