And tightens until language can't bear this
Hollowing, crash cart, Please. In the silence,
A bus slithers by.
A din. The aluminium morning takes on more tension
And becomes a metal rod
Straight from a tunnel, dropped in a gate groove.
Disappointment. And again The End gate
Opens and it's, Please
Come back. Please be. Then nothing. Only end-
Less night taking off from the smooth tarmac slate.
The potpie clock, its stock of twelve numbers
A stew for the weak and the weary.
The small war of the heart made bigger
by far in the world.
And daylight a gift.
Small cog after cog slips into the hour
And razor-thin minute slot without stop.
And daylight a gift tied with some tinsel.
Mary Jo Bang
The Paris Review
Copyright © 2005 by the Paris Review.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.