The frisky pulse and flow within,
the puzzled looks, the growing thin.
the kinks in lids, the stickiness and all
in every honeycomb of him, up, down, I heard
the call but was sure of time, thought more of it then
--not so now I’ve seen its fainting pen,
for really time and time again that glue
was always plenty, really all we knew.
But it runs, runs out on them, on you
and we are locked long in its slur:
shame and blame all go with mourning
and then the anxious wait
for yet another warning.