A clock made by your grandfather,

wood like cherries and chocolate blended and

cooking together. Then another, small and gold,

the eye of a bird with a turning pupil: Remembrance of musty smelling boxes

and nestled rings,

arthritic fingers slowly turning keys

and holding gemstones up to the light. Blink and wince

and rub

and wind again.

swinging arms with lapsing fingers

so reluctant as the swoosh past the eight and the ten and begin again.

The chime like lemons;

achy and sweet.

I imagine the stringy hands dig in their nails as they pass

not wanting to ring again.

And onwards.


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