ART

“How to Read a Clock”

by Michael Chowning

And so I do not burn/ with the seasons’ turnings,/ but know how to suffocate an hour/ into daybreak/ and then still it. 

I deal with shame/ in terms of echo-/ a voice trapped/ in 22/ leaking into the blue light./ Not a step taken/ in years and yet/ I look down/ on the burning village,/ the path back down/ erasing from view.

I can tell you that/ bodies shadow what’s left/ of the day/ as they move on,/ that the hand sharpened/ cannot be dulled/ and thus must be gentle. 

They talk of stillness/ like stagnant air breeds malnourishment-/ the tree drilled into eternity/ and yet green forever.

Wash away the color/ and tell me your body/ knows its next step./ The idea of tomorrow/ a concept of stars,/ a moment a trick/ of the light. 

Measure the matter/ of breath and report/ your findings./ No arrows guiding/ the hunter to prey,/ and yet we insist.

At what point are dreams/ overkill to the fox,/ retreated into burrows/ we do not know.

When is enough/ enough? The Saturday music being metal/ to a baby’s ears-/ he does not know the sound/ of the sparrow,/ but here is the knife/ and where to put it.

I see your playbooks,/ your deadlines and bells./ I raise you a man trapped/ in the hole he carved himself/ to tomorrow-/ the time simply not enough.

Do not whittle/ the hour down/ into what you make of it./ The air defined already,/ your purpose distorting/ its existence.

Make the body/ a product and see/ the landscape weep./ How kind to live/ for the price of nothing/ and know it's enough./ Ask me of worthiness/ and watch me pry open/ your breastbone,/ like the doors/ of a bank vault,/ and reveal the proof.

To understand life,/ understand where to put/ your hands./ Hold a blade long enough/ and watch the edges sharpen./ Grasp the year’s profit/ and become a number/ to be read by the Gods.

Sat in the field,/ a man waits-/ three pools surrounding him-/ for the right season./ Eventually, knee deep, he realizes/ that it was him/ all along.