Someone Has Hung a Clock on a Tree in the Park
  Cyndi MacMillan

and its clever hands
will not let me go, so I’ve become

a quarter to two,
my glass face cracked

in a round, blue frame. Others ignore
our absurd brilliance,

the timelessness
of our confrontational presence;

there’s no pause in their go-hither gaits,
no momentary reflection.

They see no quizzical poetry
cinched to a maple tree,

no philosophy, no art,
no theology nor ideology.

But I’ve become a quarter to two,
no later and no earlier,

a culpable renegade
provoked by this perfect now,

suddenly aware our world spins,
but only if we let it.

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