• Love lies broken on the floor – for Gracie Anne

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    Or this watch was once on my wrist,
    the shards of its glass now many
    and sharp like candle flames,
    the metal disc, still polished,
    the only surviving tray
    of a shattered house.

    Tiny gears lay scattered,
    unmeshed, like false teeth
    moulded by nimble fingers
    then abandoned,
    swept off the table.

    The leather straps are tongues
    under different beds, unable
    to choke on hair,
    gathering dust, dryness,
    incapable now of tasting
    the abuses of daylight.

    These numbers are threatening me,
    surrounding my feet, these ants,
    abdomens deformed, antennas
    perverse, prodding, asking little questions.

    I cannot find the hands,
    the minute hand, the hour, the moment
    the door closed, the hands pulling it shut.
    Something’s in my gut, biting,
    a thing pointed, moving in my lung.

    You can hear this.
    My heart is ticking.

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