It's been an hour,
A measurement of time
And thyme--

All the clocks are breaking
Somehow-the-hands
Aren't moving.

So I've been waiting,
Patiently in this hour-
-Of never passing
To feel oxygen

-With my hands again
And water in my lungs.

My nails are longer-
Now they cackle,
Illusions as
I coat them; in anti-venom.

And all from above,
For none come below--
To mention me.

I speculate mistakes as,
There made of-
Bandages

Their fabric brittle--

Its time-to-
St--

Stop standing

On backwards.

A feather fell--

Tumblers twirled slowly
To devolve-
Finger-faces.

Around this world
Of out stretched nails.

They were pure red with mere seconds,
Though tendrils fumbled for periods more.

We could fit in between-
Folder-bindings.

These were concealed
By blue branches--
Because the skies had
Tripped over.

And wishes were skulked
From memory lane.

This--
This where
Only space existed.

I should have worn my stilts.

I've become bilateral tainted--
By coincidences and ageing
Aegis fragments,

I wear sickle seeking madness-
Telling water to float, so dryads
Could root with xylem or phloem.

While the amoebas play
Webs like violin; harps-
The trees felt sorrow singing
--And dropped, but one leaf.

For--

This-was--
A waking-
'Wake'
I only tried-to-die once.

Its autumn biloma
And spring-bile holocausts--
I love them both differently-

While we scream at mountains
To hiccups that show-the-buds-
Of leaves to lions.

This love is pinstripe
-Daggers making femur bone
Candles,

With silk weavers and-
Asterisk ribbons,

But one--
Is more
​Friend than
Louver.