In fact, the mirror also reflected in a wall clock with a scythe in place
of the pointer hand.
– from Rimvydas Šilbajoris’ letter
the second-hand like Death's scythe
waves alone on the back wall
and infinite retrospective days
are framed in the memories of friends
sing under glass, apparently, sing
their white teeth, moving cheeks
Robinsons wave, and slowly
and sluggishly in the waters Noahs wave back
a rosary navel lips under the ice
insubstantial to mention the flood, we survived
in the proper dimensions of melomans
having orbited the Earth, and now it’s slippery
and the watchman now sprinkles salt
the dove’s dream, sticky eyelids
and happy quick-witted official
writes the address on the drunken coffin