Time elongates itself between visits,
stretches days to a transparent film
which winter-bright light permeates.
The numbers on the clock grow thin and
anorexic with want. They slice my days
with their skeletal shapes,
but refuse to eat from the plates
I layer with winter-bright hours.
I pile them high like cakes, dusted with
the things I do to pass the time.
But these numerals’ lips are tight slits
in these inbetween days. Dry tongues tick
inside hollow mouths.

Then he’s here and time snaps back
like an elastic band. I taste its ricochet
burn across the days. The numbers step forth
from the clock, mouths wide.
They eat my days, smacking their lips.
Soon they are fat and black
like the stamp of a day-to-day calendar. I watch as
the hours are ripped away from its pad and
caught on the wind like anaemic leaves.