The Cuckoo

My walls are lined with clocks
the kind that run dry of futures.
They crash, hands against the wind
confined and tremulous.

Faces to be left behind
carried on wrists, over hearts.
Numbers that never change,
ever cycle, always slide.

These hands will not hold you
they are made to impale.
Born of stuttering noise
and fingers that never touch.

Wooden birds stalk and chime,
fluttering springs over broken beaks
to follow you through silent halls
lined with hands and faces.