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Nice words, top marks! nt
second hand prose
An island strand across a silent sea;
a curve of time, an arc of lifted gems –
the semi-precious stones a master takes
with pincers, from the body near the coil,
and places on a canvas while he works
inside a disassembled faceless watch.
His focused eye inspects the inert heart
of muted springs wound tightly, nested in
still pinions, pawls, thin ratchets – frozen cogs.
Appraised, all fractures sighted, noted, known;
the artisan attends, amends – makes whole.
Renewed, the unbound second hand runs free;
with one red sweep the matador resumes
its endless reel upon the face of time.