By Karen Wolf
--
on either side of the colon, where
numbers dictate. A cardinal feeds when
empty, predators far. Red
numerals slash
more sleep minutes across a bedroom
wall. Dawn roosters
while a jack rabbit forages
time but my clock boxes remnants
of my paired life: clothes, crucial
books, a double handled cleaver stops
at a box of journals that houses
expectations, cavernous
disappointments, views bathed in
turquoise light. Cathartic to
watch a fireplace flame consume
the years, one at a time. Dali’s
clock slides back
up the table. Sun
and stars, growling stomach, one iron
heavy eye lid, my
sundial.
Comments