The Clock's Ghost

I unbuckled the leather and dropped it on the rug.

The fluorescent light above the sink

is humming a low, flat note.

There it is on my wrist—

a strip of white, startled skin

hiding under the grime of the day.

The rest of my arm is a baked, angry red,

but this one circle stays cold,

a pale ring of December in the middle of July.