Lento

Lento

How is it I never noticed the hinge
between this moment and the next
or the silent click of the two pieces
of wood that witness events?

Like the weather, these sinews will change.
Tomorrow they'll be boxing gloves from nowhere—
a rabbit punch to the neck, a kidney jab from behind—
illegal blows, but what does time care?

Say I had a say. I'd go for flowers taking time
to open—lento, lento—making time to close.
Or you, brushing your hair on the side of the bed,
each stroke putting years back to live again.

Please, not a snake snicking through the dark wood.
How about you, me, under the same perpetual moon?