The Drunken Clock

Gwendolyn MacEwen

The bells ring more than Sunday; Eve,
orchards and high wishes meet the bells
with grace and speed. The staggered
clocks only cousin the bells; after
the timed food, the urgent breakfeasts,
we lean to other seasons, seasons

of the first temple
of a basic Babel
of Sumer
of meek amoeba

Clocks count forward with craze, but
bells count backward with sober grade.
Tell us, in the high minute after they
sing, where the temple is, where
the bell's beat breaks all our hour-
glasses, where the jungled flesh is tied, bloodroots.

Carol Wilson