after matthea harvey
surrounded by its wooden lining, the clock
jolts its hands in time like any other instrument
that might keep the day in order—a certain return
for a selfhood known to project into another frame.
mindful of its movement along a dial, the room is slow
to dissolve & break away. is it anger
denying my refuge? or is the choice made
on its own? the hand swings
with a purpose: a phantom inside the
apparatus. & meanwhile I am not well.
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