displaced again from the dais
by the murk of hollow monotony,
out of step with the rhythm of the earth,
severed from the underground wire connecting all to all,
the locked groove repeats.
the clock reads 4:16am, buried in ice
six inches out of reach.
alone i lurch toward nowhere, a solipsistic spark
too dampened to ignite into a flame.
and from the muggy dark, there’s no retreat –
only counting down the hours
til i’m absolved of experience
before the broken needle drops,
the record plays again,
each time a little more degraded than the last.