I hate that sound
winding again
as if again 
every night
to order, execute,
push the blood along
the vessels.  Twist
fingers, again;
hair, grow; food,
digest, thought,
think.  Where am I 
in all this?

I might as well be
hooked up to some still-
to-be-developed life
support machine.  Clock,
do it for me.  Plug me in,
click me on.  I’m tired,
run down.  Will someone
please wind me up