holding hands with the clock,
feeling its pulse, you worry about
the space between each of your teeth-
(you can't stop thinking in stanzas.)
when you stop for air, it's your tongue
that measures the millimeters,
but it's too drenched in wraparound conversations that never have
an epicenter, and you can't even feel its muscles.
you figure it must be molding from all your rotting words, your
expired promises, and maybe you can deal with that.
after all, your wrists have been numb for ages,
and your hands don't even feel like your own.
but you hold on anyway,
forgetting the proper formation of your bones.
yesterday at the grocery store,
you heard a stranger call his lover by your name,
it wasn't a coincidence.
sometimes tulips keep living after Easter and even they
get sold for spare change.