for Meehan

I catch this number on damn near every

clock I pass like the hour, regardless

of zone, is hardwired into my attention,

inviting holy weirdness into the moment—

numbers written in to language to encode

meaning or instructions. I rarely under-

stand instructions, much less read them

in full. Or in parts, like an opera or a friend-

ship or a Lunchable or a four-way stop

where the wind never blows, at least not

at 8:37 in the morning or evening,

whichever time happens to be breaking

runny all over my grits & grime. But twice

each day, I touch the jawbone of time.