by Annie Davison

our clocks forgot to
go back this year
or maybe their hands
have become stubborn
in old age, so
we live an hour ahead now,
flowers drooping before
their petals fall
plates dropping when
the guests have not yet arrived
when I sit on bridges and
watch water sleep walk,
the people on boats
are laughing backwards
my skin feels less real and
more like rubber
if I trace myself back to
my origins
I was paper light
once, too