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.