AN INVITATION . . .
To Open Up . . .
A book, any book, of poetry, then your notebook, and write your dialogue with what you read. If you like writing and you would like some booster sessions, feel free to email me!
BONE-CLOCK
It is ten o’ the bone
and the heart’s nightingale
is singing her last song
in the dark.
Loud dust ticks in teeth
and tocks in the hot wet
manacle of her mouth.
The hour hand
gyrates at her wrist—
the minute hand accosts air
and pokes at sky
in a wicked motion
under the everlasting sign
that lives and loves largest
above all things--
while the second hand
pulses sluggishly round
the world's slow sphere.
Come to me in an hour,
at 11 o’ the bone,
come to me in the marrow
of the most innocent child.
We will dance into the wrong times,
the times that are neither
wrong nor right,
our bodies the only timepieces
that at dawn
ring no alarm,
urge nothing to crush
the great silence
only we can know.
This poem was short-listed for Aesthetica Magazine's Creative Writing Poetry Award, 2020.
