A clock is buried here, ticking
Through drought a hundred years, and then
A century of rain—the hours a cat’s cradle
Of meridians, seed-bank triggers, hosts
And parasites sleeping, waking
Hidden time in the sun’s gift, shunted
Seasons, the wake of ash where lightning
Cleared the land, the air itself
Braised, a secret, sweep-second arc
Only planets know
Hieroglyphs, a door beneath dunes, bronze
Triumphs, gold, worked reeds, paste
Portraits of gods, the dead king, his
Expectancy of long welcome, the longboat
Readied—horses slain, slaves
Stars wheel, emptied through
A needle’s eye, the universe recollected
In signal stamen, braids of cumulus
And, over rock-spray flowers, the bees, golden
In the pollen wells
Estill Pollock | The Agent
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)