An Horologist Returns to Work after His Wife’s Diagnosis

Here hear the clock: the tick the tock the tick
The swing of pendule swung by gear-dinked chimes,
Or quartz hum the pulse that clicked the quick
Escape of the wheel to regulate time.

Hear then my heart: the push, the mute, the hush,
The push, the headlong measure fails to cease
Save when work, save when play, save when I blush,
And veins relax pushing blood to my cheeks.

This though. This is the close-weighted metronome
The unwatched pot screaming to life in heat
In heat frenzied with the cells of her own
Blood her own bone the flesh her flesh will eat

Hear now the feet that meet feet on the floors
The feet chiming for rest twitching in sheets
The beeps the whitecoats tight-lipped like pushed-to drawers
Neighbors worried about what we will eat.

Hear then my shop: the tick the tock the tick
The beat. The measure. I’ll change the long long measure:
Make seconds like minutes. The pulse will draw a slow
Escape of my heart in response to her.

This is my work this is my day this pace
This pace won’t change my heart won’t change this pace
This is the blood the push the mute the hush
The push the long long mute that does not hush.


photo by: martinak15
The Curator is an assemblage of original and found essays, poetry, reviews, quotations, image galleries, video, and other media in a continuing commitment to wrestle with all that is in culture, and to look toward all that ought to be in hope.