Between the Beating Clocks
Cheap, made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table to the work station. They fill the room with a music of ticking, only just out of synch. It could be maddening, Poe's buried heart, or that spinning toy, a shuttlecock, ratcheting over nylon cord slap, slap, slap. Or the body's racket in the blood, the slow tock of sex undone. It soothes, they do, soothe, the ping-pong rhythm of their second-clapping hands: red line, a vein between this and that.
From Elegy with a Glass of Whiskey by Crystal Bacon. Copyright © 2004 by BOA Editions, Ltd. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd. All rights reserved.