I stood on the bridge;
the hand in my pocket
holding the
watch you gave me before you
died.
it sat there alone in its perspiring
womb.
the dark was more than
night; it squeezed through my
pores.
the glass grinned sheepishly, like
a drunken mourner,
and the
numbers
fell about like
hailstones;
but it was the
hands
that lifted
an Accusing
finger.

as I looked down,
a darker Me than
I
looked
up,
and made me see that it was
I
who had emptied your
cup.