It’s a proud little poison
that our flight be pre-ordained:
a concertina calling.
We like the music, but these
clock faces spin wrong.
Thyme would be better here;
hear, hear the ratcheted riots,
sprung like your eager lips
as lies slink from the water.
It’s not wrong, yet we’re not
yet wrung, and I feel the pull
of tripping, crippling tears.