Random Acts of Poetry

All Night

All night, by the bed,
the numerals flicker and burn

like cold, cerebral flames.
I hear no ticking,

just the gentle heaving
of your breath,

the electrical hum
of existence.

The numbers
keep on slaying time

with lunatic precision.
A steel needle

inscribes
words on my forehead,

repetitive sentences,
coils of nonsense.

The clock
loves counting:

one, two, three
hours unwind

like spools of film
from a preposterous movie

that drags on till morning,
that fades into sleep.