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.