An Hour from a Minute from Now by Gabrielle Galchen (17, New York)

             You will find happiness 
              an hour from a minute from now
              and that’s it,
she tells herself.

But is now present or perpetual?
All she sees are
haphazard “routines” stacking up in front of her
like rotting pancakes

---

 Time was an illusion until it wasn’t;
sanity’s queen, she had dictated the clock’s pace
to twist little moments
into candy canes

But now the clock runs by its own hands;
it has grown fat with time and power,
boasts beer-belly of gloat
as mobs of ticks imitate each other.
The chords ring like madness. 

All anyone spouts is,
              ​be strong,
so she tries to find new little moments:
blinded hunter,
she runs a manic search for escapism.

Eventually she can only interrogate herself:

              Why do you only appreciate
              presence from absence?

              Or are people simply fickle, and the world mad?

              But do you really dare define anything
              in this crumbling dictionary?

She pretends to find small nothings in herself
that she knows do not matter,
will never matter
              (what is ‘matter?’
              it, too, has lost itself
              ​underneath the clock's meaty arm)

But she won’t stop 
until time starts being subjective again,
until an hour from a minute from now

or so

​