There is a ticking clicking ratchet hatchet
in the buzzing drone that sleeps me slowly
up to the neck of the rich hiss that
finds time sliding quietly out of reach.
There are gamelans that make clockish sounds,
yet pretty, running like rats across the richest chimes
that rhyme the ebb and flow of dreams that puzzle
and dreams that follow fleeting shadows of memory.
For I am the metronome of all that haunts you
and I am the keeper of what you thought you saw and did
and I will remember the odd thought and skewed logic
that dredges past and future from within.
So be the dancer who taps a dream to life
the drummer who measures the moment's span
the cello's human voice, rasping but harmonic
the intricate stop-start machine of gamelan.
In sleep, live the life unlived, perfect and parallel
till you roll with the music teacher of the soul
till you turn in waves of incessant, crazy rhythm
and find yourself entirely in the clockwork of dreams.