Hourglasses
by Anna Ciummo
Both are not arrived
yet. Yet there drop the first
and half-dry tears,
ready for the making
of themselves.
A tap towards their perfect
sifted sands could make things
even flatter—too broken
to be swallowed alone.
The hill and a worry arise—
that of their dampening
somnolence. The slow
movements continue: their glances
at one another, the question
of mirrors, the question of the question
of mirrors. Now and now,
there is their shift in preparing,
looking, of packing grain to glass,
the dropping away of time.
They cannot watch this.
They have themselves
figured already, elsewhere,
blooming at one other
in their clear-cased fallout.
Ready now, to spend the rest
on things that divide them,
then turn them over again.