Poems February 2017
He took the watch apart. The snowflake gears,
Too delicate for hands his size, bend and
Entangle on the table. If only the metal
Would melt then maybe so would time.
The leather band has faded to a pale urine.
The watch had been his father’s,
Worn at the Bulge. The gears malfunctioned
When he hurled the watch to slow
Time down—it only stopped. There are just
So many revolutions. Telomeres clip
And age us, but death is not a rabbit
Pulled from your coat on a crowded subway.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 35 Number 6, on page 32
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