the clock rests gently on it's wooden rounded edge,
rescued one handed and missing it's pendulum.
there's no telling what's been reflected in it's glass.
the memories of clocks only stay
in places where tendrils of smoke from long cigarettes,
kites that broke their string in highest windy flight
from starry ghetto rooftops,
the sound of Mothers singing to themselves alone
and the edges of a new leaf moving inside live.
in this place all broken clocks are royalty,
striding the avenues in top hats with pendulum canes taptapping,
greeting their fellow clock kings.
metronomes flock on city beaches watching waves
in charming velvet and leather carriages with handles on top.
past great hurricane names write themselves sinking into shores
of blown and blasted pyramid edges.
Cracked hourglasses love the opera
leaving trails of sand behind for the mindful to rake
floating in bright orange robes on ohms from ago.
golden gear tables perch eagerly
stacked with large reading glasses.
for this world is bright
and can change suddenly and impermanently.
the queens wear large head dresses made of roman numerals
held up by the attendants with long chimes,
their trailing painted moon and sun disk dresses glitter gold stars.
over there in the castles live the laughter and sighs,
cohabitating quite happily, growing the gardens
of swept cobwebs for weaving fog.
but the best places of all are to be found out forest way
here are the unuttered lines
that haunted the barely waking.
whispered in mind
certain as brilliant and forgotten,
rilling in the streams of wisdom.
erased drawings are glowing in the rockface
reflecting light of birthday candles in loved children's eyes.
ignore the caves of mourning howls beyond
there are terrible giants of lost wars living there.
nearer to the mountaintop
the dragons and witches fly
over colonies of mapmakers scanning skies
with obsolete cameras.