Tick-Tock Say the Eyes

Tawny pain erupts behind

clock-round pools ticking down the mind

to happiness on leather fields,

for grace and fashion yields

the morbid taste of bovine trance

fit for costumes in the sequined dance;

and men will know and beasts will cry

that all that lives must also lie

beside the shifting brook

bleeding fragrant fights into the nook

hidden from heart, hidden from sight

waiting for the peacock light

by which a hammer quakes

and restoration trembles where conscience wakes.

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