Flint and locket,
Pockets turned out to rid of dust.
From your perspective the flow
Of time is quite imperceptible.
From hers it is made of springs,
And gears, and string.
Her thoughts billow above
The horizon. Her arms
Become currents and fish.
“Now?” You ask her. “If not now, when?”
You understand none of this.
She falls to the ground and fills the earth.
Takes you inside her silence.
Warms your face with liquid hands.
Mark Melton resides in Melbourne, Australia, where he occasionally dabbles in poetry, as well as other similarly fruitless pursuits. He enjoys staying up late, over complicating matters, and writing about himself in third person.