Egg timer

When the dry wave flipped the rim
of our threshold, I didn't notice at first. The particulate
grind of toenails was a reclamation. To dust,
a hiss and a voice I knew but didn't recognise. Done
with pearls, it would soon take our skin. Lapping,
the other voices went to ground soon enough
though perhaps in some rose cavern they found the dripping
that consumed us. Light shaved to bone I lay shifting
in thought, twig hair sprung to mineral. Only my head
turns now, heavier than before. It alone is alive
in the sifting, final twine resisting. The seed
was the last thing that came my way to rest, to root,
extract. I tell time in quarters: I am three-quartered,
my pile of dust grows a peak. Nothing can even sigh,
sough, tall grasses in the wind. There is only the still. But
the air takes on flavour of what is nearby, which is
nothing. Beyond mineral, there is no scent. There is
nothing to move the only passengers of time, the
witness that can record and know things.
The existence will be self-telling and dry.