Silence of Clocks

Now everything has positioned
itself before my iris.

it's in a room, a leafy courtyard outside,
in a summer the breeze that closes the windows,
comes down to study table and talks to me
with my grandmother's face.

And all the time
you move your fingers over the table,
ruminating in the cell of a crossword
without white squares.

I resist amid the silence of clocks
that beckons me to fish on the shore:
a moment of expanding quiet,
summons past,
it is the strangled stream cleansing,
it is the crumpling of leaf gasping,
I do not want to conceal myself from you.