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Out Of Time

By Milly Butler

If I could begin again

l'd abstain from prodding the hourglass,

and addle the ache to gutter the sand faster.

I watch it lapse through the gaps,

pleating in a pool of minced grit

confined by its former vestige

held back by what it was before,

glass untrodden by the shore.

If I could begin again,

I'd not tip myself upside down in haste,

speeding time, as the dry sand filters

through my bushed spine, pooling in my gut

in a hoard of chastised chances

confined by my former vestige.

Detained by how I once existed.

Lest you rupture me open like a shell

and tear me open like a wedged lapel,

then the hope that once encased all

beaches of my existence

will skim through my weary fingers

grain after grain, again and again

bursting urgently through the breaches.

Exploiting my slack clasp,

until there's no time left

to be glass.


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