Like Clockwork

A hard-thin veil,
blood-candy coating on Gaia's firmament,
hardshelled cartilaginous member,
thins today to pale clear parchment
and glimpsing I, and turning away,
just as they turn, great brass cogs,
winding up toward gravity

ticks

away this reality seems too real today,
cinderblocks are lifted by roots,
are lifted by pistons and springs
thinning veils, thinning veils, thinning veils...

clocks wind away my detachment,
carved like soap
in a million angles from flying straight away,
My insulation was transparent anyways...

still this discordant drop into
role-comfort sends me rolling in
short, stopping movements
just trying to side-step what winds the cogs

gods, or my mistakes.