—for my Father
“fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being”
—Gerard Manley Hopkins
Tenderest pendulum,
Your slender stem is
Tremulous as it enters
The minute’s fundamental;
Your bass quakes, still
Gruff—fustian—
And the dimension
Of dust seizes everything.
Light, like a mainspring, dances
In the crazed decanters
Of fake topaz…
A pirouette of motes.
Through the tilted attic,
In the milky wash of morning
Cherubs, perched on your either
Cheek, chime the furtive hour
In hoarse whispers. I found you—
Choked and immobile on a shelf,
Your wheels stilled yet un-
broken—And wound you up. But
The seconds slip through your slow
Hands. You were never meant to
Insist our keyed-up pace,
Old Chronicler. Your gentle,
Abstract face is bent now to the ghostly
Voices of years you never kept.