No Deist clock maker wound this flickering universe, then crept crept behind some cosmic tree to let it toll and tic and tune itself. The silent serviceman who brings along his little bland son calls evenings, Sunday afternoons-- applies the key, slides out the glass that could have been the lid of Snow White's coffin. He takes the ball, props up the playing field as if it were a car hood, revealing all: bundled red and yellow pin stripe wires, a xylophone, coils, copper circuit boxes, a boxing bell, dust, cogs, A light bulb carton, the switch that sounds like a trap door closing, dark diagrams, plywood walls. A litany of cause and effect that could go wrong-- does: 1000 points when lit has failed among the half-stories and split elevations. Unlit stair wells become cul-de-sacs; some windowed rooms have no doors. Think walled ramparts offer shade. Most walls loop and twist: the sun never falls too long on any one wall. Boulders have tumbled into the gorge, sit dumbly in the middle of a farmer's beans. Rain-pecked watch towers reveal circular threshing floors. Morning comes in stages: call to prayer, tea, first light touches the valey's rim. The silent craftsman's son sweeps the sand from the door.
POET LORE (Vol. 90, No. 4)
The Pushcart Prize, 1998