Monday, May 22, 2017

Turning Off The Night by Martin Willitts Jr.

Every minute, every object reminds me of you. 
I am afraid of breaking through light, 
not seeing more life, not knowing more of you.

In shadows, there is a dome-shaped old clock, 
broken, not working, useless as sleep. 
It has a small drawer. Inside is a key not winding 
or unwinding time, frozen and absent in the Forever.

It is on the desk your grandfather built, lathed designs, 
rounding edges, making pieces fit without nails.
I’d like to think I use the same love and craftsmanship 
when I tell you I love you, hoping it’s enough.

I try smoothing the edges of shadows where light is 
hidden and aching. The stillness of the night 
paces with me. I am already impatient for more time,
more of you and less of the absence of sound.

Time is never still. Not even if a clock stops, 
only right twice a day — time is endless —
someone is always sanding the rough edges.
I keep checking on you before turning off the night.

Martin Willitts Jr won the 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Contest; Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, June 2015Editor’s ChoiceRattle Ekphrastic Challenge, Artist’s Choice, November 2016, and a Central New York Individual Artist Award for "Poetry On The Bus". He's been nominated for 20 Pushcarts and 15 Best of the Net awards. 

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