Aquatic Clock

Graceful like a pendulum
I swing
I come up against the quilted crags
of memory
and the touch, though smooth,
echoes...
thus I break in blind waves
spreading, groping,
faking their lighthouse
for comfort.

my crooked hands are numb,
almost fluid,
deserted by a preadolescent puppeter,
to tired to play...
they are hanging between two shores,
both wrapped in mist...
both breathing stories
from their steamy wounds...
either scars or sketches still.

I tick in iambic pentameter,
but I tick for the deaf,
for they are the only ones that can count silence
drop by drop.