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Time in a Face

Hands progress around the clock’s face, passing cheeks at 3 & 9, the chin at 6. Ticking past the temples, past the hollow beneath the bone with where powder and sweat pass one another through the pore doors. Time wrinkles in the winking.

Fingers trace circles like beach grass in wind. They stop at high noon, rest there then slide down the center, the nose bridge and tip carved with family history, the lips hiding teeth, then fan away into space where the ticking marks the emptiness, pip, pip, like bounce-less dust in interstellar space.

Light lies across my little table at a new angle as summer moves the sun left and left each day. My hands on my thighs point left too when not tapping a keyboard or lifting a teacup. Hands with ruched topography rest in front of me, old, but new to my morning eyes.


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