this clockwork

when she turns her head
just slightly away
exposing the subtle
curve at the nape
of her angled neck
is it merely instinct
which awakens these bones
or is this rush to desire
choicelessly made
on some microscopic,
cellular level?

this dance like any other
slowly unwinds beat by
subtle beat counting time
like any other piece
of clockwork
or crafted machinery,
and yet just beneath
the outer layer
fluttering more than skin
deep some thing
that’s not a thing
continues to stretch
its wings.