Tonight, at sevenIt, being a sundialsat outside your house like a banished husbandFaithfully telling time even in the dark, by the glow from kitchen windows and the television, keeping company the damp nettles and the chives that we ate raw.Buried amongst wet greenery like Aztec ruins, straight-laced, grey-green,draped with solicitous, seductive weedsTheir conspiratorial green arms, their curling fingers clingingto the fading austerity of etched Roman numerals and the stern, steel handsBlowing smoke-rings of pollen to further rust the somber clock-face.One summer, we found him, sedate, archaic,Paying for our neglect with mosqu