Waiting

Time expects knots
so why do we
the strings
demand stinted lines?

The tines of the antlers
of the dearly nearby
have put one too many
wholes in my chest.

My heart would beat
if there were room
squeezed beside the
twisted fjords 
of another hour's price. 

Inflation, am I right?
Concatenation:
blame
and the cost
of doing business
according to someone
else's contract that can
only contract that sweaty
horror -- connective tissue
outside the Gordian now.