The fanciest cake slice left
slicing into icing— eternally weight
not clock watching.
Sail gone up in a lake of brass. Birds
at least twice the boat’s size
figuring how to land.
By day, an oblong gong, small reward
for a job well done; by night
RMS Titanic going down.
In the Forbidden City, eternity pinned
its spinning top; clocks elsewhere
are wick, water, incense, sand.
In his circle, a sorcerer summoning
from beyond, grimoire and wand shaking
to make tell the light.
A fin tells endless beginnings, forever
in motion; moonlight
keeps even a shark’s ghost going…
Bright as the metals bent for war
on Vulcan’s anvil in Velázquez’s forge—
all moments froze when Apollo spoke.
A brutalist tube not looked into
but claiming it can tell perfectly well
where it stands. Dumb telescope.
Like Urizen’s tool, but unhinged
measuring days not space; darkness
will be half this compass.
Ornate and inviting
as the wrought-iron gate to a garden
tended by forgetfulness.
Snow over the numbers, grubby bear
gauging depth not hours, this being
Red-hot spike on the dial. Untouchable
ragged shadows— forest fire
tearing time to now.
Rob Miles is from Devon, and he lives in West Yorkshire. His poetry has appeared widely in magazines and anthologies, and he has won various competitions including the Philip Larkin, Resurgence Ecopoetry, and the Poets & Players prizes. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Stand, Poetry News, One Hand Clapping, Spelt, New Welsh Reader, 14 Magazine, Mediterranean Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Poetry Wales, and Australian Book Review.