Hands diverge sixty-two times On the outside of the clocktower where I've been locked for countless days And on the land I've forgotten chimes Bay Sixty-two times as the face glowers A stairwell leads down To chambers and halls used as a dump And upward where my boots often pound Under the clockroom trapdoor I found There I fall twelve flights each time I jump Bruises and scrapes do not help my sleep but with plenty rat poison to eat I dream of the clock room High up there I'd not comprehend that mass of churning gears Grinding no end throughout existence Sounding twenty-thousand time a year Throw myself the cogs with no fear Might find silence or indiference -G.A.