Waiting for a Response to a Love Letter

The clock has spun itself dizzy,
no doubt nauseous – in a moment
time will spew from its round face
and ooze out onto the hardwood floors,

gathering in a thick puddle
like so much quicksand
to suck my apartment down
into some nameless void,

swallowing the blue recliner
and the stack of books on the coffee table,
devouring the writing desk,
the office chair and the cup of pencils:

everything that I know, all that I am,
will soon be ground between time's yellowed teeth,
savored for a moment,
and then digested until it is only a fine dust

while, outside, the forgetful world
will continue about its business
of love and hate, dreams and fears,
just as you might do tomorrow –

sitting down to write me back
after a quick, thoughtless snack.