Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, 1931, oil on canvas, Museum of Modern Art, New York

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Clock Faces 

You’re thrown into a desert,

with nothing, nothing but the slashing

of ocean against the base of the cliffs.

The only sound, the distant ticking of time.

Unaffected by the heat,

unlike the rest,

it sits to the side

hidden in the corner slowly rusting away.

Another’s hands are to the left,

on edge and still.

You wait as it cascades off the edge

without making a move.

With only a branch holding it up,

Limp and lifeless,

thrown over like a wet sheet.

an object with time draped over

like a saddle on a horse

it lies drained from the heat.

Everywhere soft liquid time slips through your fingers.

Sara Donohue