Brian A. Blake

 

The Daylight Clock

 

Remember the work of the Daylight Clock:

The time he keeps must be perfect,

For we tune our lives to his ticking.

 

In his forgotten corner he complains:

“I have gear-clicks and whirling springs,

And my face can tell the phase of the moon

In mother-of-pearl. What do they see,

Before they see me?”

 

We do not see.

We do not see.

 

We are, in the night, foam-fraught,

Prurient tides, beneath the face we ignore,

And we would drown or rust the clock

If we knew him.

 

Remember the work of the Daylight Clock:

Awake, we affixed his face

With drift-wood hands, and the gems in his gears

Are green sea-glass, and his pendulum: falling sand.

 

 

 

The Portrait

 

There, at this point, the place is set outside,

Set in a yellow place with thin, white leaves.

 

You’ll notice too that there are boys

And I am one and he is too.

Mother and father made us we. That was a softly day.

 

That was a point of place,

Squared away, though all was round. The lake rolled.

The hand that rested was the heart that sang.

So I am a manly man.

 

 

 

First in Green Light

 

First in green light snared,

And then in pink or orange washed

 

Her proud face, unlined,

Still remains still in there.

 

Her mother runs the wholesale store,

Sells tiny gifts: Plastic belts

And the latest rip-off purse design.

 

I may not shop there, but I bought

A hat once in the street for ten,

That she sells in bulk for one.

 

I may not shop there, but I may

And do look through the window

Now and then.

 

Last night, the girl:

She left the cash drawer out.

Of course the cash is gone today.

 

Through the picture window,

First in green light snared,

And then in pink or orange washed

 

Her still face remains still in there.

 

 

 

Brian A. Blake