Rather...
He pulled the hands from clocks
compiled the seconds
in small boxes
The hours he stacked,
too neatly beside the door.
Days he split-
lumber for his stove-
All this he could do.
But not the nights.
Nights crowded him,
begging to be filled, ripped
split or torn asunder
by light/joy/happiness.
It was at this point
he turned away.
Some things are too hard.
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