The Sunday Poem: The Clock Before Falling Asleep

It’s not tick tock. More like a
Tack chalk tick chalk take chalk talk chalk,
A song without sibilants whinging its way
Around the vowels, never settling, circling back.

As you sleep it falls into white noise,
Just chalk chock shock sock until every moment
Blurs its way into the melting dream.
Marking moments that move sideways,

Perpendicular to seeing, the sibilants easing
Their way into the susurration of sleep.
Each six degrees of movement, each sharp tick
The peak signal in a rush of static.

What is a clock? A simplistic rhythm, like chalk itself,
Nothing more than a rubbing on the face of time.