3/13

time zone

in my pocket of air 
i decided it would always be
seven-thirty at night
because that is when
the moon flowers 
whisper & when no one 
can take back an afternoon.
my mouth is full of paper crowns.
did you know that somewhere it is
definitely three in the morning.
whole streets woven asleep.
i stayed up until 
everything was glass.
a well-kept secret. 
now it is a sun feast. 
everyone in the street 
with forks & hunger.
i never wanted to be
a rule-follower. i am not early
i am incredibly on time.
wrapping door knobs 
& sending them to my old lovers.
who needs a closed life.
everyone can see my time anyway.
what others secrets
do i have to keep?
my time zone has recently been
kissing another so sometimes
i am accidentally one hour fast.
hand cuffing myself 
to a grandmother clock.
she scolds me for listening
to men's versions of time.
i ask her what she means
& she says she can't tell me
at least not anymore.
my hands spin like minutes.
in the pantry
there are the ghosts of
arrivals past. all are knocking
on the insides of doors.
i say, "you are already inside."
spare key under my tongue.
righteously, we are 
storming the morning
& taking all slivers of gold.
i fill my pockets
& you fill your backpack.
you say we need to run 
but it's too late.
like i said. in my breath
it's just seven-thirty again.
a sigh of relief & saddness.
i wanted to wake up 
with snakes in my hair.
instead it is time again
to put every finger to rest.
tuck me in & 
please if you remember
wind the clock for me
until it's as tight
as a closed fist.

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