Tacked to the wall,
the art print of “The Last Supper”
fades from sunlight
washing through the upstairs window
with the breathtaking view
only the visiting artist noticed.
It measures my life, vanishing ambition,
by the dissolving colors.
Once, in my car long ago, a girl asked me
to take off my watch because
“It ticks too loud.”
It’s still too loud at night now.
In the dark the luminous dial
hangs on the doorknob.
The insistent secondhand
sweeps away my birthdays.
On the shelves crammed with unread books
obsolete pink and tan computer cards
stolen from my defunct life among machines
mark my limits.
Seen through v’s of discarded indoor antennas
v’s drift against the always slate-gray sky —
Their choreographed wingdance displays
the perfect harmony of form and function
that Da Vinci tried to model–
reminding me of his last words
and of all the books
which will never be read
and all the poems
which will never be written
and how much will never be done
Published in Arden Spring 2006