Circdian Arrhythmia

The leaves are down. We have not seen the snow.
Time is a looped tape of light and dark.

Days of rain fade seamless into night:
sunless midday, grey afternoon, blue dusk.

Sunset is marked only by the sudden blink
of streetlights, dawn by the electric buzz

of alarm clocks. I wake in the dark, adrift—
what time is it? Should I get up?

Time is a run-on sentence with no punctuation.
Time is a wheel that turns but doesn’t roll.

This morning I tore a picture-page off the calendar.
Shreds of dawn-colored paper blew from my hands

into the sky.

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