You want to know how many hours remain
on the fringed lilac faces of these clocks—
Oh take heart, unstrap your sandals, walk by
the shore, leaving the animal that’s lowered
its head to nuzzle wet sculpted sand. And then
come back to lay beneath the windowsill—
You’ll hear the honeybee still sharpening
its rhetoric, the far-off notes made
by bodies nested in burr and fiddlehead fern.
The latch of the gate falls close at evening’s
approach. Its brassy little sound bursts
like a small blue blossom puncturing the dark.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.