Wristwatch Sestina
I wrote a sestina, because I like to do things the hard way.
Wristwatch Sestina
Sitting bent over my desk, under the bright lamp-light
I poke and pick with scalpel sharp precision
At the glowing golden entrails of my wrist watch
Prying them apart, layer by layer, piece by piece
Each screw unraveled, pulling out the swirling seashell tip
Conch-like and rough in the pliers, under my magnifying glass
When I look up for a second and catch my reflection in the glass
I can see my face, shadow-thick in sterile light
Deep holes of black from my hollowed eyes to my up-turned nose’s tip
And my glasses mirror-blanked with silver spots, perfect in their pin-prick precision
It seems as if I’ve turned into a movement; a metal screw; a piece
Just another cold and disassembled watch
I take a break from tweezer-grabbing to turn the winding screw, to watch
The tiny golden hands ticking softly by my ear, warped by the curved glass
The steady rhythm of the sturdy sound the essence of the timepiece
My disembodied ears drifting in the sound, heavy and light
The stirrups, hammers, swirling bones attuned with acute precision
And I feel myself begin to tip
My body buzzes electric, tingling from toe to tip
A quiet violence unforeseen by the neighborhood watch
The gears and tiny golden fixtures scattered in a mess of my precision
And I slip myself, fluid and shrinking and bending, under the watch-glass
Blinking up through the distortion at the fractured light
My carefully contained anxiety for once at peace
They say Persephone was doomed for eating pomegranite seeds, every piece
Another step towards her doom, the edge, the mountain’s tip
And Psyche had a hard time keeping Cupid out of the light
And like them, I feel I’ve spent my whole life keeping watch
As life moves by beneath my microscope glass
Over-analyzing every moment, every word, with perfect agonizing precision
My realization hurts, sharp in its precision
Underneath the tick-tock hands, deep inside the timepiece
From down here, myself beneath the glass
I know this revelation is just the iceberg’s tip
That I need to finally do more than watch
To live only from inside, a peeking under-door light
I wake in precision, sharp as a pin’s tip
I begin to find my peace in the workings of a put-away watch
And move from under the glass to out in the light.
Wristwatch Sestina
Sitting bent over my desk, under the bright lamp-light
I poke and pick with scalpel sharp precision
At the glowing golden entrails of my wrist watch
Prying them apart, layer by layer, piece by piece
Each screw unraveled, pulling out the swirling seashell tip
Conch-like and rough in the pliers, under my magnifying glass
When I look up for a second and catch my reflection in the glass
I can see my face, shadow-thick in sterile light
Deep holes of black from my hollowed eyes to my up-turned nose’s tip
And my glasses mirror-blanked with silver spots, perfect in their pin-prick precision
It seems as if I’ve turned into a movement; a metal screw; a piece
Just another cold and disassembled watch
I take a break from tweezer-grabbing to turn the winding screw, to watch
The tiny golden hands ticking softly by my ear, warped by the curved glass
The steady rhythm of the sturdy sound the essence of the timepiece
My disembodied ears drifting in the sound, heavy and light
The stirrups, hammers, swirling bones attuned with acute precision
And I feel myself begin to tip
My body buzzes electric, tingling from toe to tip
A quiet violence unforeseen by the neighborhood watch
The gears and tiny golden fixtures scattered in a mess of my precision
And I slip myself, fluid and shrinking and bending, under the watch-glass
Blinking up through the distortion at the fractured light
My carefully contained anxiety for once at peace
They say Persephone was doomed for eating pomegranite seeds, every piece
Another step towards her doom, the edge, the mountain’s tip
And Psyche had a hard time keeping Cupid out of the light
And like them, I feel I’ve spent my whole life keeping watch
As life moves by beneath my microscope glass
Over-analyzing every moment, every word, with perfect agonizing precision
My realization hurts, sharp in its precision
Underneath the tick-tock hands, deep inside the timepiece
From down here, myself beneath the glass
I know this revelation is just the iceberg’s tip
That I need to finally do more than watch
To live only from inside, a peeking under-door light
I wake in precision, sharp as a pin’s tip
I begin to find my peace in the workings of a put-away watch
And move from under the glass to out in the light.