You hang there in your death, an orange bud.
Your rising fat on the skyline ages 
me clockwise – I’d follow your long arc to 
eek out each minute, but you keep sluggish
time for one so fast. A mute repeater, 
proud of what your beauty once was, but now 
your dial is splayed there, cracked, pitted past 
repair.  Deep lesions spell out your maker’s 
name, a one-off work by a blundering 
master.  And now you are captive, forced to 
exhibit your slow measure, muscled by
unsparing light and a callous sister,
bright with burning cold, without hope of any
resurrection. Shards of your reflection
fall at my feet. Your hands wash in the tides.