My Dali clock works like a dream.
At the moment this was written
it read 42 degrees and 54 seconds.
Time dances by night, sleeps by day
frequently tripping
never falling or rising.
Its face is a series of tics in detox
powered by personality meltdown
and lapses in memory.
The battery holds
an unleaded banana
peeled by lips of its tongue.
At some point in the future
it wrote a poem
which, pending execution
I hung on a cloud.
