Alignment

Our gears align
to match a number,
decode a quote–
but outside of time.

The schedules of chance
push,
they push
their way through moments–
through this crowd,
this ointment,
this ballpit of appointments
and possible signs.

Too close to forget,
yet that’s their design.

The bones of the spine
go click click clickity
click click, click click
click click click click
clickity click click click,
or something like that.

My friends are a whip
coiling for an epic snap.

My friends are
drunk in the ballpit.
Gargling in the moat.

Tick tickity tick…

My friends are
moonlight itself:

an element
silvery and wet
in which dreams float.

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