The second sweeps like a slow motion suicide.
The clock face pure like the bleached skull of memory past.
He leans against the steel bars, watching, waiting as the clouds build.
He hasn't seen the sky in five months and longs for its spectacle of desire.
The sun and moon sleep on the heavy black numbers.
The energy of the storm builds, the pressure lives in his head.
Like a worn place in the movement, he watches for a hesitation in motion.
He waits
watches
for a hesitation in motion
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