Diet (2)
this morning I eat the clock
the din the palpable hands
the cord and all
a brave cake
and after that I am still
Poèmes sur le thème : clock
Poèmes sur le thème « clock » sur Poets.by.
On the road, again
the road grows with us
the road is lost
though going the same way
the road is master to the clock
but not to clouds
Open schedule
My clock
is the only tune.
Nothing passes without time—
no days,
no wine.
Timekeeper
Time gone, I fell upon
boring holes in the clock
and calling it chance,
keeping a month or two with me
like water in a boat, black
with every particular of home.
I observed the fanatics
who cry up death say
they will not pay for time,
like a road when we have
no money for ordinary dirt.
Building my house
a story higher, saving light,
I long to see time heal.
Mortality
This morning I find myself
laid out in the grave.
I have hope—a far tree intended
for many birds—but I fear
the wall with a talking clock.
It is going to lie.
Cold comfort
Cold in my hut
I huddle over the clock—
rogue theater, thief
of wife and moons.
Missed appointment
Morning came
to the yard but not
to the doctor, night
having stayed to guard
the doctor’s lodgings:
an old, painted dresser,
a bad bed, a clock
ready to shake.
Distrust
Into the drink—
a swan places hope.
I am afraid
of the clock, after we go,
counterfeiting our hands.
I never blink.
Music lesson
Music: the first clock,
before time had discourse
with arms.
A bridge in the night.
Domestic arrangements
Took leave of all the keys
and the old told clock
there in the city of money
where I drank an hour,
where a black chair resolved
to satisfy the bed.
Without
Because the electric guitar had no hole,
in the middle of a song
the old bluesman lowered his mouth to it
& plucked the strings with his gold-
capped teeth.
Because the sawhorse had no head,
it didn’t know which way to run
when a plank saddled it,
& it let the saw whinny
for both of them.
Because the hermit had no wife,
he bought a clock
with a loud tick
& wound it faithfully once a week
with a little brass key.
Because the trailer had no cellar,
Open-Backed Banjo
I am untroubled by serpents
or the marinated feet of pigs.
I bear no antipathy toward bears
or the bees they bedevil,
& the devil never tempts me
to any evil I can’t invent on my own
(forgive me if I don’t delve into the details).
What makes me break down is a banjo,
lonesome as our only god the clock
but with two hands, both of them fast.
Looking in its open back
can be disconcerting: What makes it go?
There’s nothing but a bare rod
& the smell of rain.
Where’s the balance wheel?
The escapement?