Creases

I try to scrape the tick-tocks mumbling near                    
Locked eyes of undecipherable art                    
A disobedience begins to part                    
webbed-footed throbs,opacity of years ,                    
And weight of creases left on empty couches--                    
They sit on Saturday's mute office space,                    
change lazy channels on TV.I gaze            
At the view beyond the fourth-floor glass                    
and land on the hood of a car,                    
miraculously Alive, in my mind,                    
Alive                  
Pondering the sense of tense and time...                    
There are but only fourteen lines,                    
As an orphanage of stars looks on.