A blog about poetry, photography and other stuff by Mark Granier
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Nothing on the windowsill in my aunt's bedroom
but this faceless mantel clock: a boxed porthole
looking straight through itself to capture a round
of net-curtained window. Where did I see it last –
on the upright piano? Why did she move it here?
And where did the face go? I could ask, but don't,
the time being perfectly kept.
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