wood and strings turn the clock's <br /> involuntary response. <br />hands set in motion with <br />the turn of a wrist, <br /> half past remembering <br />the moment before. <br /> <br /> odd numbered time signatures <br />pull a wooden head and hands to fold <br />like some pocketwatch prophet. <br /> who shudders for a moment, <br /> then grows still waiting for the hour <br />or celestrial string to slacken <br />and realease him. <br /> <br /> he is not his own but anothers. <br /> <br />course the hands that follow <br /> the grain of his expression, <br /> waiting for fingers to grasp and <br />guide him through his seasonal acts. <br /> <br />umbilical chorded gears ratchet <br /> in him to open wooden lips. <br />the blackened ivory teeth play in minor. <br /> <br /> severe and break. <br /> how he hangs there <br />so still and without a sound.<br /><br />nathan martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wooden-ventriloquist-clock/
