Winding Down the Hours.

A black woman stands on broken rocks.
She wonders what time it is. She does not know.
Her mind sees deep within herself, the sunlight
That falls on the ground, she forces herself to move
Forward.

Time is never still.
Lost worlds and lost words, I protect myself from the tick-tock
Of the clock. A black woman walks outside to get the mail;
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.

Who’s to say what we will see, today and tomorrow?
Who’s to say what we will know, one minute from the next?
The ticking of the clock is all we have-it sounds like motors
Running, it sounds like clocks ticking.

A black woman stands on broken rocks.
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.