My friend, the scultptor Ryo Toyonaga, says he's not a verbal person. Alas, I am. Here is my latest poetic attempt.
Making hasty escape, sleep’s
bellicose company slips
through prattling windows
on wafts and whiffs of wintry air.
Why is it so cold this spring?
Bedside, a fire-red alarm clock
ferociously devours seconds.
Its alarm is set, trigger cocked,
but I did not wind the crimson
beast before bed. Sometime,
it will silently stop timing time,
and there will be no sound.