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Mark Belair
The Metronome
Onto the polished wooden pyramid
of a piano-top metronome
fits a slat that hooks
at its peak
to protect its pendulum
when stilled.
Which turns the metronome
into a mini Egyptian crypt
until, unlocked
and resurrected to resume
its count, it ticks
from where it stopped:
in time we imagined
past.
Midwinter
Even tree trunks hold
this dense a fall of snow.
All stands simplified.
All stands at peace.
All stands in one reality.
Snow falling that blindingly.
*
A stone fence
all but buried in snow.
An oak tree
snapped in half.
Boot prints—
sunk into a long stretch of snow—
vanishing
into the dark woods ahead.
*
Swirling snow and lace curtains.
White on white.
The glass between them cold as death.
Thin as life.

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