R.E.M

The concept of time is so poetically convincing.
I count backwards at night from one hundred to fall asleep,
other days I meditate to ease the mind.
Sometimes, seventeen times before my nervous system turns into jazz and my eyelids reach R.E.M IN WINE-colored confusions.
I wake up to gods pendulum, swinging at my neck, staring at me thru my R.E.M.
I don't know if she is real or if the halos are just stars coming a little bit to close.
I pick my skin up off the floor, classically construct myself out of salt and scabs and tuck intervals of time beneath my rib.