Holy Shit

The clock is ticking away
each one of these questions, timed,
attenuated accordingly by the precision
of scissoring, pairing off edges, to keep the
contours regular, steady, precise, map
making skills, shouts a mountain, the megaphone
of the Cyclopes-detector, or was that
alarm hounding its clock-howling ghosts
against rattled-bone confinements of
snake-warning; one more step and I swear
walls become water and we’re drowned
down with toilet paper and the unmentionable,
forbidden, beneath it

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