Luna Dreams ape

80 Photography

Her head hung low from twenty-one years, years that pendulum-like, strung from her neck, had pulled her, bent her, side to side, and she—unwilling face—had twisted to their stride.

His head thrown back from ninety years— ninety years that fixed to a bed his gnarled spine but not his soul— the watchmaker wheeled by.

And as the two passed in the hospital hall to her, it was twelve, the midnight hour to him, it was no time at all. And as they passed, her mechanical eyes followed his face upturned.

And time stretched and stretched as he farther sailed, as she waded in his endless wake— and weight was a senseless thing in the mist in the heave of restoring waves. And time stretched and stretched as he farther sailed until time snapped and fell. Her I.V. pulsed to a distant beat

and she was well.

Poetry 81