Liz Belmont DIFFUSE It sits in front of me, ticking, A tangle of wires— Red, green, yellow, blue. Which to sever? What remains intact? Cutters in my hand, ready to snip. Stop the ticking. Ticking, and dripping, buzzing— Rain or sweat or blood obscures my vision. A bee flies in circles around my head. I follow it for a while, around and around. And then it flies away, towards the flowers— Away from the ticking, away from me. Which to sever? What remains intact? I don't know. Why don't I know? I want to Stop the ticking. Time's running out: eight minutes, seven, then five. There is nothing I can do to Stop the ticking. I walk away. Digging deep into my pocket, I pull out an amethyst earring. Globs of purple suspended from silver— I want to tell you about it right away. I want to tell you about the rain, the bee, the amethyst, the silver. I want to tell you about the ticking. I send you a message and wait for a reply. Maybe you'll know what to do about the rain, the bee, the amethyst, the silver. Maybe you'll know what to do about the ticking. Maybe you'll know.