First clock skipping to sequins and glitter
tilted to the sea’s mirror set on a blue vanity.
Not the second—frenetic, breathy,
high-strung like wire for a tightrope walker.
When I saw the third, it was going to Key West
in a ferry washing in a sink of bobbing cups.
Number four wore a T-shirt backwards,
salted apron, floury hands, white cap.
The day was a boat bow when we passed the next
clock slapping a high five to a hipster wind.
The sixth clock had danced for Nebuchadnezzar
but hid in shadows as we got near seven.
You could see the moon on the seventh’s face
with a dinner bell ringing its narrow isthmus.
Eight common eiders circled the next clock like
village elders in a committee discussing rocks.
The ninth clock didn’t dance, seemed instead
to stumble in crests foaming over onyx depths.
If you’ve seen a ten clock move you know how
Venetian blinds jitter when the front door closes.
Eleven stands for a clock that knows its own face
down to cogs, wheels, chins loosened with time.
When I saw the twelfth clocks, I felt sorry for it.