I listen as the gears grind
like bones pressed by rocks
back into the essence of life.

And in the grooves beneath my perception
there is a grain of sand
still eager to become a part
of the time keeper’s course.

It is this sand
once useful in its ubiquitous plentitude
that fills the space needed
to advance my perception
that this life is a progression

but I turn these hands over
to find lines
less like the distance between two points
and more like the grooves
that press back:

the grooves that
when rubbed against each other
echo the quiet noise
in precious moments

of making contact.


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