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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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