She opened a pocket watch to find the shadowed hours
pulling their clock face to the distance,
little twigs vanishing in a whirl of snow,
but still the long hands reached past forgotten plans
and each set of suggested routes
converged like a spider, centered on its urge to crawl
onto the next project, squared across a row of days
no hinge could clasp shut, no cover could collapse
to the moment when some project pinned
and smoothing towards eleven
hovered on the bauble’s golden ceiling.
As though these sticks could sweep away
the minutes left to sift through
to a waiting stage, the determined dial lurches
forward beyond tiny springs and cogs
layered under an enamel plate,
hidden beneath a wreath of numbers.
Here, clasped on its long chain
all the ephemera of a forgotten day,
the scraped knee that healed,
the ticking unheard amid
crowds and crows that flock
around a timing device lost in a pocket.