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Liquid Clocks

Jack D. Harvey

Of memory we can’t
explain what strange
hooks cramp us in;
but boy, oh boy,
the living room
we lose every day,
more’s the pity.

You laugh or weep
your way
over the endless
bastions until
some sweet summer’s eve
becoming razor-sharp
some cold winter’s night
the edges cut
your fingers
through and through.

You fall
to the dusty beginning floor;
Persephone’s flowers
through the door
seem
less sun than
gloom there.

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