the clock is blue
time is ice.
the butterflies are
creme and paper.
rust around the rim
of my mouth.
it takes a while
for the clicking to
the painter lays
down along
his brush. for good.
the writer is blue
her words are ice.
the hands are
falling away.
my body is
a clock.
is watching sea gulls
a weary ocean.

this day is
my hands.
i beg it
to stop.


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