by Kristine Ong Muslim
This loneliness is obviously misplaced,
pure as a body saddled with sentience.
Its static is pre-arranged. Its breath, foggy.
It stalks the way light engulfs an unlit spot.
I wait for it to lose its steam, to catch its
reflection on the mirror by the bathroom sink.
I am sure it will be surprised by its stillness.
I am sure it is wondering where that dull ache lives.
Editor’s Note on Dark Clocks:
An early version of “Dark Clocks” first appeared in Rougarou.