December 3, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Working Clock”

An illusion on its way and I’m prepared to ask
questions. Where my thoughts go when my hair
falls to my waist––the cold feels sharper in the rain.

My fingers run through every bone on your back
and you feel the laugh before it comes like a sting.
I thought winter is meant for the inside and fire escapes,

like the pot of lapsang tea, I am now reminiscent of wood,
of earth, the musky moment after that freezing rain,
and we circle the picked flowers that are bent around fire.

We leave them for days and the fire has gone out,
the wick is missing. Our citrus ornaments have dried
but the rain keeps pouring between us finding a train.