I can hear the Clocks.
on the whitish slate of my palm
is a bizarre toy
made of insects
And the other,
the Clock of the World
deafens my eardrums
with its fluid wings.
in the Memory of the Present,
I feel so strange,
a new-born child and dead
in the very same second
with the soft sun.
smears the Clock nooks
and its condor wings
into the fluid.
Olimpia Sarb's Other Poems
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