When I’m bound to the clock
I can’t stretch my limbs or my mind.
I’d rather know months by the change in the leaves
and the hours by the sun and the inaccessible hidden stars.
They’re masked by the streetlamps here.
Once in ten years, I have seen constellations shine clear.
They signify the loss of old loves
who pointed above and told me their names.
By this I can tell I am old
and the world is not what it was.
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