the coup de grace
to the coup d’etat is reflected
by the face staring
into a basin of blood,
runoff from the standoff
of time and movement.
a year of action is incited
by the droplet hitting that basin,
and the ripple is it’s outcome.
a reaction in a moment
that unfolds in quintillions
of seconds.
the hands of the clock stare
down the moon revolving this
earth that is staring down
it’s axis, awaiting some
paradoxical anomaly.
the cocks stop crowing
and the apples cease to fall.
the sky is down
and the stock market is up.
but my pocket’s hem is loose,
and there is no change.
everything is stagnant
and motionless
because we’re all waiting
for the ball to drop.