Nocturne
We tend
to sleep better
when the clock
is wound
than we do
when it’s all
wound down.
I don’t know
why we settle
to the sound.
Somehow
the regular
click and chime
of passing time,
like water, turns
a water wheel
that turns a gear
that turns a stone
that turns upon
another stone
and fine and
finer in between,
our dreams, like grain,
are ground.
Poems by Todd Boss
Copyright 2008 by Todd Boss. All rights reserved. Reprint permission available upon request. First published June 2006 in POETRY.
About this poem,
Todd says:
“On the farm, we had an old wall clock with a pendulum. The nights were so quiet, and the ticking of that clock was so ubiquitous, that sometimes it was a sonic illusion: were you hearing it, or weren’t you? And when you realized you weren’t, it was unsettling...”
Click to hear Todd read this poem.