Sunday, 16 December 2012

A Fable

In the spaces between spaces
of how it chanced,
implode to darker lights.

Drowsing clock,
a book turning itself aside from itself
an inward window outwardly
gold flecked.

Here you can follow the clicks and whirrs
the mystery machine made
when the skill
of its construction constituted
the livelihood of those living
in an accidentally concealed town.

They yearned for day
and yearned for night.
The milk had gone off in the fridge
and the plaster of the ceiling was cracked

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