Ample Ambling


We’re all winding

our own heartbreaks like we are winding our clocks.

Maybe because we were born of two parts

broken before birth,

always struggling to find that harmony,

that connection;

because we were born of


in that one moment of perfect intimacy,

complete and whole breaking of barriers,

seed sown and


we crash into one another

with hope

that we’ll find the consonance we were born of.





Or maybe I am a fool,

and a poet,

and evidently redundant

(are they not one and the same?).




I’ll wind my clock

like I’m molasses ,

in the dead of winter.

I’ll wind my clock

in a sloth’s measuring of time.

If my clock was a walk

It would be an amble—

I’ll amble toward you,

so as to soften the blow.



*Painting, Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus by Salvador Dali



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