We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.

It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.

Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, little worse.

Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.

Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.

I thought I could stop 
time by taking apart 
the clock. Minute hand. Hour hand.

Nothing can keep. Nothing 
is kept. Only kept track of. I felt

passing seconds 
accumulate like dead calves 
in a thunderstorm

of the mind no longer a mind 
but a page torn 
from the dictionary with the definition of self

effaced. I couldn’t face it: the world moving

on as if nothing happened. 
Everyone I knew got up. Got dressed. 
Went to work. Went home.

There were parties. Ecstasy. 
Hennessy. Dancing 
around each other. Bluntness. Blunts

rolled to keep 
thought after thought 
from roiling

like wind across water— 
coercing shapelessness into shape.

I put on my best face. 
I was glamour. I was grammar.

Yet my best couldn’t best my beast.

I, too, had been taken apart. 
I didn’t want to be 
fixed. I wanted everything dismantled and useless

like me. Case. Wheel. Hands. Dial. Face.