Hasten to Hesitate

The following is a "magnetic poem" - which gets its name from the word magnets you may have seen on refrigerators. In this case, a magnetic poem is a poetry game between several players. Each round, one player is the host. The host selects an existing, published poem, arranges all of the words in alphabetical order, and gives the alphabetical list of words to the other players as a challenge. Then, the other players, individually, write their own poems using only the words in the list (or try to come close as possible). After a specified time frame, the players all submit their entries and cast votes. The winner gets to be the host for the next round. This magnetic poem won me the round. I'll post the original poem in a comment.

Both legends and theory are quite strewn
with such units of time.
Each event runs by
as in a low ditch that partly led to yourself,
but rather, on the second hand,
will not.
You’re not blind: these are visible but not seen.

The clock's third hand points directly at you,
holds you perilously, infinitely,
until you snag the laundry (the garters, rather) of time
and find yourself on the rabbit, running, entirely out of oxygen,
with a leap through unanticipated architecture -
the chutes, holes and firehouse poles -
among faces, undead and cardinal red, that become
a Stag's crowd gathered at the corpse of cake
where, smelling the sweet icing of you, human delight,
all is as they expect.

You've been surprised
on the very last birthday.
It marks a nice occasion
to plunge between your breasts
through the yielding strata,
transecting flesh and flower,
and dine on your small, ticking viscera -
on the sticky sugar tassels that will also be delicious.
Will it though?

There are two sides, as correct as not.