Hands Of A Clock

Hands Of A Clock


They clap together at twelve,
six-twice a day
a measure of the tides-
manic-depression

These, the cyclic rhythms of a day, week, longer yet still.
Watching the clock move
to rhymes
of my life's bumpy day.
I am twelve.

Keeping pace as I rock
with the round,
never-ending movement
sign language

When the batteries die a vacuum sound is heard, rest.

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