Jake W. Ford
3 AM
It's 3 AM; the Matins.
A clock ticks its vulgar chanting,
deranged and hot.
My thoughts like punches
fast, bruised, throbbing.
Hours felled as trees
at a chainsaws touch.
Teeth grinding, limbs twitching;
then jagged silence.
A fevered scar,
intense as an August sun,
burns my feet.
I dance till dawn.
Jake W. Ford is a writer and artist from East Tennessee. His work has appeared in Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, Unlikely Stories,
Grotesque Quarterly, The Southern Quarterly and Kestrel.
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