Gear, arrested (Kāpiti Coast, Monday) What if the whole week is just the sound of not-yet turning— the oil still cold in the teeth, the teeth still counting clouds. Seventy-two notches and none of them owe you anything. Three small bodies orbit what refuses to call itself a centre. The rust says: I was already here before you named the mechanism. Monday is the day the wrench lies next to the bolt and both of them breathe. You showed up. That is the entire machine.