Quadruple Zero

Quadruple Zero

Which 12:00. AM or PM.
The AM begins at midnight.

The middle of the night
is the morning. Add an hour

to the time it is now, and
you’ve shortened the day.

Hit snooze. We’ve made
the alarm into the time,

our body responds to noise,
not to 7:04 AM, not even

to morning. The second
hand on a clock is really

the third hand, a finger
flicking time away like

crumbs. Why no half-
second hand, no milli-

second hand. In my hand-
writing, numbers are starting

to disintegrate. My eight
is less propped-up infinity,

more a headless snowman
in weakening gravity, the top

sphere pulling away from
the base, slightly. Should

I draw a line through my
zeroes to designate them

as zeroes, as nothings,
not letter O’s, not the vowel

of surprise and pleasure.
Bar the zero, forbid any

thing from getting in,
a sign clasping what

we slide it over, a gel
slipped onto a stage light,

but no color, no light.
A lens cap. How can I

know that my zero and
your zero are equally null.

What I weigh in my house
is not what I weigh in yours,

our weight shifts based on
the country where we are

or the planet. The number
that is sewn into the back

of my pants fluctuates based
on who made the pants.

And now, the makers of pants
cut them larger while holding

the number still, as if we were
shrinking within our garments,

our bodies, size four, two, zero,
double zero, triple zero, quadruple

zero, all sizes of clothing a variant
of zero since that seems to calm us.