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the Midnight Clock
by Nat Wilk
Her immense ice and bite
in the pool of the night.
The mere geometry
of an instrument
of the sky!
She is awake,
and clicks across the sky
like a metronome,
crooning for the hour
of a midnight meal.
From what dimension
does such an enchanting timepiece
emanate from?
What secrets does she hold
within her concave craters?
She whispers softly
on a glacial Monday morning,
“I know what you did.”
My pupils dilate,
her crescent shape reflected in my eyes.
Nothing is sacred under the sky—
only the moon can break my icy calm.
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