The door is open

moonlight, silver streaks

falling, crawling upon

the tatami mats, reaching

thin, long fingers into the room

But they cannot

touch

the clocks

I raise my face to the door

the open wooden frame

light wood like paper

the moon like paper

I sit in a paper room

with a papermoon

hanging above my head

shining crisp silver

The clock intones

and it echoes into my chest

My heart seems to respond

in kind

thump

thump

Then somewhere

deep within me

or perhaps

it is outwards, beyond the paper door

a dull thud

echoes like the temple bell

telling time

the time of something close to human