Fall 2009 / Issues / Poetry 2009 / Volume 40

Stop the Clock — Bruce McRae

I remember,

you were pointing a stick

at the moon,

It was the day before

the wolf bit you.

Near to that incident

with the toothpick.

You were with a girl

who rubbed brass for a living.

I remember,

you had a signed edition

of a box of bags

and were dating an ex-nun.

Around the time

of the break-out.

Sure, and as I recall,

you were studying wych elm,

or was it moonwort?

Either way,

that was the same summer

they moved the graveyard

into the secret forest.


You had that awful sunburn

and my lung collapsed;

the very same day

as the mudslide…

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Makes you think

real hard.

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