From “All Souls”
In the cupboard, a pocket watch in its case,
velvet ribbon knotted on the click and winder
black as wet roads, soft as a tongue
in the shadow of a closed mouth.
Its precision jewel bearing is ruby.
Its spade and whip hands would snap off with pressure
from the smallest finger. And yet
the escapement enforces its circle
of unbreakable numbers. Someone
has let it run down. Don’t turn back,
it’s the wrong way, is the relation of
chronology to history at all valuable here.
