Rebecca Keith One and Two and

This ball guts around in you for weeks. A heavy uh uh,
a stammer and paw at the matter, but the matter what is?
You want to be the blond in disco pants one day,
want to cluck cluck the boys away, toss waves
over your shoulder, strut and pout. You want to be the corner
where the coats get piled—a burrow, a warm mess,
a time to go home now. But you're caught
between one who hears and hums and one who sees
structure, installs eyes where there might fit words. On top
of the not knowing you will build more not knowing.
On top of the clock, build another tick boom, dismantle
the chime. This is no song-time, this down to the bone time,
how can you know time?

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