Thomas Mixon
CUT TIME
The linings of my innards’ out
numbered days are counted
by each hair. That I am over
reacting, is obvious, but in
cidental to my body’s dooms
day clock, that winds itself
around the withered villi,
cadential, commoning it
self into a 4/4 beat, familiar
stresses. I am used to
malabsorption’s stasis,
the nutrients bewild
ered by tempus imperfectum,
immobile till they’re alla
breve’d through. At last
tally, the endoscopy’s
results are inconclusive
tempo markings bloated
all across the staves.