JET LAG (published in Icarus Anthology, 2017)

Jet Lag

Food trays separate hour from hour,
or tiny bottles of liquor, or black coffee with sugar—
but even meal time makes no sense.
(We all have dinner at three am).
Now on the grey clock, I do not owe you a thing.
You cannot know if I will ever come home.
Strangers & loved ones are one & the same;
Therefore, death no longer matters.
At home, one bee dried dead into the cotton bath mat.
In response, I clean many surfaces.
Bills piled on the table do not yet exist.
Time has become its own perfect excuse.
Sleep eludes me like explanations of loss.
Limbs heavy as boat masts,
the mind row upon row of shaded arcades.
Dropping into dream, the purest gold statue.

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