Ticking clocks

Our veins can catch like pulleys;

Like ticking clocks, they snare—

Hold your hands steady, now, love,

Machines require care.

Generously, carefully,

We oil our different parts;

They murmur of perfection

And metronome our hearts;

Others say, “I’m broken, proud,”

And tout their grinding gears;

Refuse to say, but clear as day

They’re pointing—“it hurts here.”

My darling, you remember

That bent, broken is not;

But my love, don’t you forget—

Don’t let yourself stay caught.