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Parallaxm — The Lost Hour
Published: 2013-05-23 17:08:15 +0000 UTC; Views: 165; Favourites: 0; Downloads: 0
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Description
4 A.M. doesn’t belong to anybody.
It's a void as full as the sea
and if you wrapped it up in a burlap sack
it'd just soak right through your fingertips
till they shook all uneven, like prunes.
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Birds skirt the fringe of 5 AM
before their warbles are ironed out—
smelted to pungent black coffee,
a glimmering granite banality.
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Watching the crows at 7
do figure-eights in the sky
and measuring the sunlight’s
inching crawl.
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You forget your body at 2 AM
while a slow fuzz stutters in your ears
slipping, like a nickel
between the gaping floorboards.
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12 is the sober philosopher
the fabled rendezvous
the tinkling laughs that
flickered like a firefly.
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The thing about in-betweens
Is that they’re perpetually jammed
like a printer— that’s 3 AM
dishes raining from the sky.
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A paper crane mobile—
5 PM on summer day, wanton clouds
If you close your eyes,
you can hear your neighbor's wind chimes.
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So when 4 AM rolls around
your hyphenated breaths come and go—
like the dragging spokes of a music box
plucking Morse code out of silence.
You could deny it like they
deny the 13th floor,
but it'd be laughable, that;
a promise that reeks of convenience.
The wheel cranks and it's 5 again, (again?)
a balloon string that jerks out of your fist
and wanders somewhere you can only reach
ankle-deep in REM sleep.