Time
it’s the whiteness of bones
that shed their skin for the final season.

It’s the blackness of branch-second-hands
stuck windefinitely 
on the sun’s tired face.

It’s the rust of blood
in the spot where I always nick myself
wrestling with Time each morning.

It’s the frayed gray of five a.m.,
when silence makes it easy to hear
the clangor of letters
flying across the ocean.

May they reach
in Time.