Fall 1993 • Vol. XV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1993 |

Birthdays

The warning this clock chimes to me, glass-bubbled, the face within the reflection of my face, the hands explicit on the dial as only a contrivance can afford to be explicit,            tells me that my face, my hands also have time within them, an insect eating life as a moth does carpets, and that I too am shadowy as my grandfather was when he looked at this or his aunt who first brought it over from France in the old days before the war, a war fought more than a hundred years ago--   --And that the work of our hands is only going around and around to touch off every now and then the certain, precise sounding of a small gong like birthdays perhaps.

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The warning this clock chimes to me, glass-bubbled, the face within the reflection of my face, the hands explicit on the dial as only a contrivance can afford to be […]

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