nor the name of ~

the bare wood she sang

was a tune to nothing
nothing past ten in the morning
stripping her cage of
the rare ruins of its past

she doesn't intend
ten past two in the afternoon the side order of culverts and derring-do dishes helmed hours prying kitchen doors nor washing machines with surrealistic clothes ticketing the dry wind in the ticker-tape of fury try
repeat fail again

Not that she remembers any other word blended by the hour of choice the sitting down ducks of her or anyone's fate as far as that goes she waits at the table serving the hourly moment a mass of praying and quirky humdingers ashamed to pronounce her name between times she lives in slum rises tenement buildings with rats for neighbours waiting for the cushion of fate to carry her A word clinging to her ear she is the beauty of the instant in the mirror of choice her minor shield an arrow to trace her spare fibs and open handed fable

Seconds later the baton and ranked squares summon the hour from its kept pond orders a troupe in the hill not a possessive noun a frown to agree on a teased spoon leaned against the rock

page turn to her gleaning dust