Against the Hourglass

I balance on river stones that remember the flood,
boots slick, the rope at my waist a wet snake.
Time gnaws them smooth. My breath makes a fog
I can’t keep, a glass I write and erase.

Sand keeps its appointment with the narrow throat.
Grains take my fingerprints and keep none.
A handful sifts itself into a smaller sky;
the rest waits, patient as a bruise.

I lose whole mornings to the tilted bulb,
listening to its small weather: hush, hush.
What I chase thins to dust-sized scuffs,
letters I once owned pressed flat by wind.

Then the turn: I flip the hour, grit stirs,
rope bites, stone holds. I make a plan as simple as skin—
match, thumb, windbreak—
and in my cupped hands, a stubborn coin of fire.