02-02-2021, 10:47 PM
The clock of sex
Tocks like the rain
On a skull buried three feet down
Next to a pair of silver-bowed specatcles.
An old axe of peculiar make
Amid a collection of human bones
Under nine feet of earth
Stirs in its sleep and shifts itself against the rib
Of an always hungry miner.
A cap and ball pistol, buried two feet under,
Dropped in death or haste or simple frustration,
Dreams of the flash of powder
And mourns its empty barrel.
An old shovel and a pick
At the bottom of a twenty foot shaft,
Wooden handles wormeaten, iron rusted,
Wait in increasing despair
For familiar hands to swing and thrust them
Back to life like Lazarus
A collapsed cabin whispers to a piece of board,
Hidden in a crevice,
An abandoned diary on a wooden page,
Writing effaced except
"April…..baby born today.”
The clock of sex is a resurrection machine.
It reconnects these fragments of hands and eyes
Into a song that finally fits the sky.
Italicised phrases are lifted from The Thoen Stone: A Saga of the Black Hills by Frank Thomson (1966)
Tocks like the rain
On a skull buried three feet down
Next to a pair of silver-bowed specatcles.
An old axe of peculiar make
Amid a collection of human bones
Under nine feet of earth
Stirs in its sleep and shifts itself against the rib
Of an always hungry miner.
A cap and ball pistol, buried two feet under,
Dropped in death or haste or simple frustration,
Dreams of the flash of powder
And mourns its empty barrel.
An old shovel and a pick
At the bottom of a twenty foot shaft,
Wooden handles wormeaten, iron rusted,
Wait in increasing despair
For familiar hands to swing and thrust them
Back to life like Lazarus
A collapsed cabin whispers to a piece of board,
Hidden in a crevice,
An abandoned diary on a wooden page,
Writing effaced except
"April…..baby born today.”
The clock of sex is a resurrection machine.
It reconnects these fragments of hands and eyes
Into a song that finally fits the sky.
Italicised phrases are lifted from The Thoen Stone: A Saga of the Black Hills by Frank Thomson (1966)