poetry

The Room with My Grandfather’s Clock
by Ernesto Superal Yee

One may think
There is too much space
On the walls
When the beating of the pendulum
Has ceased.

But let the focused black eye trace:

The Roman numerals
Drawing the years
On her sepiaed face glinting
Behind the broken glass;
The ebony, still grasping
Gold leaf ornaments
Summoning grooved voices
Wheeling the present past.

There!
The proclaimed silence of evolution
Is deemed worthy.

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