I Cutlass Spent Days With an X

By | 3 February 2024

Question: What does every ancient reef forget?
Answer: That time stopped for it several thousand years ago.

The line resembles a stain on the sundial’s brow. Imprecise,
fading outward, crowned by the earth’s long furlough

from dust and heat. A hand paused at six o’clock:
the hour that brightens the blue lawn, threads steam

from the kettle’s mouth. The same hour gathers like silt
in a harbour where seabeds nourish their fossils-to-be.

I want to break open each minute, eat the loose seconds
where they fall. At forty weeks the line is a rusted gnomon.

You swim in the noon gap, a metal goldfish tocking the bowl.
Linea nigra: watched pot. Each night you kick the line:

extensible, impatient to begin.

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