His task to watch an hourglass wash itself,
        A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
        Though no purification's new enough
        To nullify the need for such labor--

        Prior soon to repeat, platonic clone,
        He should have practiced that horizon
        Vocation, camouflage, opening his
        Arms wide the better to hide. But of course

        If the flesh is fire, bones are the kindling:
        Still there but aching to be unbelied
        By the lover, unbellied as breaths held
        Until all the minutes fall to the wrong

        End of the hour and find his final
        Efforts,ve faded, dated as (or like) a sundial.

Copyright © Bill Knott, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.