To Dream You in
Mackenzie Dwyer
You clasp a shell
to your ear —
That concave clock
a well-fed moth,
you think
you hear
its feelers dusting seconds
off its back as it
hovers on the black —
the ocean.
This clock a kitten, whiskers sifting
The sigh
through lost things
when the ground is hushed.
This clock a surge
of your blood
to line your face
as it splinters through the grace
you knew as youth.