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Clearing
Out
(in memory of Bessie, 1916–96)
1
Her antique clocks stare
into space; hands, springs
and cogs
locked in time.
In the compost, roses from her last
birthday; brittle and jaundice-brown,
their petals embrace
an imaginary heart.
No cipher to borer-grub hieroglyphics
excavated while sanding, tunneled
into matai
like catacombs
under the rotting carpet.
I stand at the window, bubbles are
locked
in the warped glass. Beyond black
trees
a shadow of pigeons spirals up
smoke slow, unraveling to settle
like ash.
©
1999
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