After Salvador Dali
Time droops over a hollow tree limb
like a damp bath mat, thickened by water.
The tree has lost the memory of growing
each year’s bark, the memory of each age ring.
A fly hops clock hands, becomes a sundial
but ceases to play as night expands.
The fly has never seen a stardial, who has?
Ants take pieces of peach clock
to their underground burrows, their kindred
take pieces of the sun that flamed
soft skin to where there is no colour,
where the memory of chemical perfection
of swimming pools persists, but sea
becomes mist, burned to a brief atmosphere.
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