On the Clock

The catch is always just one slip up
It fits as an apt prescriptive description
I’m what I’ve become so here I am there
My face red from a flying circus of words
Twirling in a mess around my flustering brain
Time means beyond than everything present is
Future embarrassment speeds up the hands
Turns them round to oblong then to a very thin line
Centripetal dancing points arrows out of time
Spins everything far away from now and forever
Unspun will we never hold any peace together
My thoughts sweep up in the threat of dressing down
I must run clean away for the cautioned early warning
Have to whisk out of here before midnight becomes morning