His clock has stopped watching.
His watch, an immense presence,
an octopus with jewels.

His clock stops about twice a year
in private and for about three months.
The rest of the time it goes on doing its business
“awake to its time and place” and so on.

But for now his clock has stopped watching,
his back-up band is dead.

His television has rabies,
the bake-sale is canceled.
No more Rembrandt-phonebill.
He’s too depressed to vote.

The room, much later,
and the room still later,
and then finally inevitably
the death of the room.
O room, to have stopped running,
you wild home!