Tickings Of A Clock

I began to see old lanterns, books
opening/folding within your eyes;
a pale light running as silver
to the sea.
Then crestfallen leaves dangling
as from fishhooks or the autumn moon's
skeletal lightness tossing a path
between waves over this sidewalk, that,
with the back streets passing occasional
hisses at the main culprit, night.
The prim measurement of your smile,
not the wan neglect of cool skin tones
or fabric always more suggestive
of summer colours, sideway movement
of shadow into tickings of a clock.
Rather mist and clamminess,
lipstick in a smear as a
thumbprint before the
coughing of a motorcar
as its elliptical wedge
tears darkness
away from sight.