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if time can echo
'What does the ticking of a melting clock sound like?'—overheard in Dalí
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A clock made from ice
lies on sun-scolded tiles—
the ticks go
slower,
steadier,
harder—
as the pool of water
grows,
wakes,
devours—
The ticks become a pounding
beat
as the clock melts
into throbbing muscles
From timeless to time—
From time to flowing blood—
When forms collapse into echoes,
that’s when the carol ends.
Copyright ©
Jasmine Tsai
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