by Michael Catherwood

when they understand nothing is clear
against the white frame, as they suppose,
when they give away small morsels
of faint light, as they might ( over there
beneath the loud and fat tongue)
when they silence the clocks
from their machinations--
perhaps, for instance,
the glower of confidence abruptly
disappears, and in the doorframe
the whisper of dim light
omniscient, dead in the sky, slants in
when they silence the understanding
and veil, as they portend; that without happiness
( the drafting table dismantled)
clouds enter through the pipes
when our eyes seldom are turned
like doorknobs to locked rooms
when we can smell our unraveling
away from ourselves where time stops
when, as you think, you're loudly crying

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