by Kristin Dimitrova
I crossed the street
to enter a secret shop
where hundreds of hands grind time.
Charted small faces leave aside their arguments
about missing moments and start
ticking reproachfully, peep
out of three walls with shelves.
Two alarm clocks
ponderously hurdle the minutes.
A grandfather clock with a pendulum necktie
shows me the way.
inscribes on the counter
its own vision of accuracy.
Down there, the clockmaker
is tinkering with the open intestines
of a disbatteried body.
His door rang its bell.
‘A new timepiece?’
I dislike giving false hope
so I said ‘A new chain, please.’
Then thought The one who will manage to slice
time into amazingly thin straps
and thus make good use of life
will be the happiest of us all.
The clockmaker raised his gaze
and would not agree.
Trans. from the Bulgarian by Gregory O'Donoghue
Last updated October 02, 2011