The Persistence of Desire

by Anna Evans

Despite those melting clocks,
the way the body fades,
our wants prevail like hands
moving over a face.
Always, the northern rocks
rear up their palisades,
the sun assaults the sands
and in the oily disgrace
a monster sleeps. Who knocks?
The scorched horse chestnut maids
a timepiece rinsed of ants—
is this the end of the race?
I dreamed I loved you. Do I? We could
ride out the aftershocks
with fistfuls of tulips and blades.
Slowly the skeleton japans
to an old watch case.

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