But What I Can See

The days are upside down

and the voices there are someone

always talking, always telling

always yelling, toiling, troubling.

Days are always never-ending

and the clock’s hands all have fingers

(ten, eleven each) all ticking in

directions of their own.

The days are grey, legs twitchy,

and nails claw at cool and

shiny-smooth faux pine:

where a swirl starts in the center,

of the grain and of a child,

spilling now into extremities

and filling every space.

The tingling, insistent spin

takes minutes in its palms,

tearing each one into strips to fold and turn.

See the eyes that question all your works?

Now know they are unphased by even this:

When the delicate accordions

gathered underneath your chair

build a mountain wide enough to hold the day.



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