the “mean” time

This monophonic whir is exactly what I call for. The footsteps of spiders or the rain-called grubs tantalizing the nightfall whisper of owls, crouching in treetops, their ancient voices burnt and umber feathers loose. I won’t move, I won’t sleep, I’ll cup my ear to the window and fathom. These days don’t dissolve, the phonograph keeps playing, the mortar won’t set, the dam won’t freeze. I wane in my blankets, eyes half alive, white curtains turning to cocoon. My hands are neatly clasped, tired of clenching, blood humming a deaf tone.

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