The clocks that push and pull dishevelment. A pretty woman is showing me how to complete a form. She holds it toward me, against her blouse, and points to it as she talks. She looks down at it until her finger is in the right place, then lifts her eyes to me and taps the paper. Clearly, carefully, she has told me, and now I know what to do.
Risk is juggled into difference.
I have met braves and cowards inside and out, trusted them equally. You or I, who could have been, lost point one day at the very spot where, years later, the accident would happen. Let me twist the sunlight until it blinds you with cheer. I've wanted to go for years but can't say why, and you are silent waiting for the story of what I leave. A faint current tickles my sore.