Claw-faced, this force begins to gnaw away,
starts on the hands of the clock,
with a grind so sickly sweet
it will lock you into bed all day long,
coat over each possible action
in a film of the postponed.
Tick-tocks swindled from cracked finger-tips
sick with unwilling, the day flounders downward
in a sad pattern of sunlight
untouched by any variation of labor or play.
The clock hands are crooked with nervous teethmarks
and against the forces of accomplishment
the evening is cracked away from sunny-side up.