The Throat of Time

The glass leans; sand keeps its slow appointment.
A narrow throat hisses—hush—
grit frets the rim, a dry weather.
My palm, cupped beneath, learns weight by pinpricks.

I watch the small avalanches repeat.
Static films the inner skin; grains spark
like struck matches that never quite take.

Then the turn: I lift, twist, breathe,
feel the bulbs trade burdens.
A rasp of grit in the seam answers back.
What was falling now waits its turn to fall.

I steady the neck with two fingers,
a tremor smoothing out to stillness—
and on the ridge of my wrist, one bright grain
refuses the slide, holding a little sun.