The Girl by the Fireplace

             “One may tolerate a world of demons
                  for the sake of an angel.” 
                                           –      Madame de Pompadour

Would I had windows, or mirrors, or time
pieces giving access to the whole—the whole
you, the whole story, every part spinning
the silver gears of your life—the ones fresh
and burnished gold from the perfect flames
of youth—or the ones at the hearth, in the middle
where we are met <tick tock, tick tock>,
each moment fleeting, each degree clicking
<tick tock, tick tock> from that instant onward
with teeth that chew the passage of days, of years,
of a lifetime,
where I could not be there. 
                                                        If I could be there,
again, the first time—rather than broken, as I am
in communication, where we are—I would
throw open the passageways, every one,
and slay the robotic machinations
of man and mind, beset by time,
and the wasting away
of all we could
ever, truly
have. 

           <tick tock>
               <tick>     
         <tock>

 <tick>