The Wooden Ventriloquist Clock Poem by nathan martin

wood and strings turn the clock's
involuntary response.
hands set in motion with
the turn of a wrist,
half past remembering
the moment before.

odd numbered time signatures
pull a wooden head and hands to fold
like some pocketwatch prophet.
who shudders for a moment,
then grows still waiting for the hour
or celestrial string to slacken
and realease him.

he is not his own but anothers.

course the hands that follow
the grain of his expression,
waiting for fingers to grasp and
guide him through his seasonal acts.

umbilical chorded gears ratchet
in him to open wooden lips.
the blackened ivory teeth play in minor.

severe and break.
how he hangs there
so still and without a sound.