clock-stretched

still-born old woman,
I'm lasting still
backwards. singing my baby blues
in your Eustachian tube,
I'm feeling a need to stamp
on the layers
of the vain and the veins
of silence.
I'm yearning to wander
to won Wonderland,
because the mirror is the only
ac(c)u(ra)te unfolding
of the hands of time.