Those hills in the distance
turn a rose color,
like a hummingbird’s tongue
stretched to taste the dawn.

Behind the hills,
the shadow of ancient cities
moves across the face of the sun
like random words.

On a low wall surrounding
a library of forgotten dreams
a lone figure sews together a clock.

Like a luminous thought
or an encyclopedia
of exacting numbers,
a mist surrounds you—

Foggy with dreams,
you regret the space between sleep
and the broken thread you followed
out of the labyrinth of lucid reflections.

Time flickers, always out of reach—
clocks stitched from soft patches:
clouds tipped on their sides.

You’ve left behind the study of geography,
created your own maps—
a cartography of caverns and catacombs
even upon the calligraphy
you drew on the city.

Overhead, skyscrapers and cathedrals,
spires, the cult of coins, and spoils of war
compete for a lottery of languages
not yet invented, forgotten
for a thousand years.

Inside the room,
the dialogue holds a logic
only you can understand.

Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His chapbooks include poetry (The Arboriculturist) and photography (Around the Bend). His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing are all available on Amazon. For more information:

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