Lost time.

we adjust the clocks ahead, and back
pausing, sometimes in moments
of inanimate decompression
and we lay still and warm in tenderness, cocooned
stifled, resolving to awaken transformed

then the alarm sounds and we’re there, again
with high pitched echoes down the long hall

in the mutual air, shared
I am often waiting for the knife
clumsy with my cuts, my fingers have always suffered
but not nearly as much
as my heart

we adjust the doors, slamming and locking
hesitant to open again, while we scale walls
balancing on our wavering habits
and dodging, the fodder for fear
we hold in our mouths
and our hands



© 3.21.11 heather brager