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Degrees Warped By FragmentsDegrees Do Worse Warped By FragmentsI.I sit among a contingent of fresh-faced athletes doing mostlyNothing,Reading a book on the crosses of cosmogony when I feel a handTappingOn my shoulder. I turn around like a toddler's wind-up toy andFindNo face to match the arm suspended in space by something unseenII.Faces of clocks abound on every wall I sit across from, next to orNear;It makes no sense to me. Half an hour will pass before I have sleptEnoughHours, and yet exhaustion always accompanies me, even during theBriefRush of excitement I feel when the clocks cease ticking.III.Library books are beginning to pile up, most of them long overdueSittingOn shelves read less than twice, ones never even cracked open for aPeekAt their lively entrails, innards I normally would be happy to gorge on.BestialI sit in the dark and wait for hunger to take me somewhere new.IV.Game shows are on and I have to buy a vowel to finish the conversationWeAre having at the dinner table.
LifesongI can feel the flutter of a butterflyflickering unsteadily through a cage of skin.It's trying to fly awaybut fingertips across my wrist hold it in.I can feel the wrong/right beating a steady metronome dance-a one-two-step forward-back way to follow pathsLike tribal drumming through the bones,Its trying to shake skeletons to shardsBut fatigue and bated breath rein the dancer back.I can feel the panic- the panic of a hundred leavesswirled through rivers tightly bound-but palms on my throat force it back.I can feel the flutter of a butterflythrough the thin prisonof my skin.