I am lost without my wristwatch, although sometimes I race back into warm folds of flesh where a clock hardly matters. This panic is like a virus time is slicing, slicing.
Fortune cookies fall from the sky.
I eat them until my tongue is inked and lips bleed, paper-cut. I want to read the runes of the body with aching fingers, lips and tongue. I want to fish pearls of resuscitation from the bitter husk of sky. But tonight such realities exhaust us. I unplug the clock, and we revel in the translucency the fragile moment this eternity the only time we were made to make.