There is a tightness in my wrists that makes my bracelets turn
And show their cruel faces of gold.
I don't know when it happened - when I who loved
The opulence of air and the yielding water
Gave myself to earth so darkness would come
And release itself into me.
Now the air is vacuum, a maker of holes
The water is torture, a string through my eyes
And all I can think of is my bracelets turning,
In the fire of my wrists,
As if they were clocks I cannot turn back.