Watch Repair


A small wheel
Incandescent,
Shivering like
A pinned butterfly.

Hands
Pointing in all directions:
The crossroads
One enters
In a nightmare.

Higher than anyone
Number 12 presides
Like a beekeeper
Over the swarming honeycomb
Of the open watch.

–– Other wheels
That could fit
Inside a raindrop,

Tools
That must be splinters
Of arctic starlight . . .

Tiny golden mills
Grinding invisible
Coffee beans.

When the coffee's boiling,
Cautiously,
So it doesn't burn us,

We raise it
To the lips
Of the nearest
Ear.


Charles Simic, Charles Simic: Selected Early Poems, George Braziller, 1999.