Mercury pendulums, gridiron pendulums, ones built
from brass and quartz. All day, The Curator polishes.
Grandfather pendulums and torsion pendulums.
The Curator wants them perfect, so when The Butcher
wanders through, the pendulums will look
like meat swaying in the frost. The Farmer will see
only fruit, dangling in the orchard. The Acrobat will
recall his entire family, swinging from the trapeze.
They pass through. They remember. They exit forever.
©
's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Kenyon Review, New England Review, Salt Hill, Margie, and other journals. He is a Kundiman Fellow and a writer-in-residence for the InsideOut Literary Arts Project.
We’ve published two more poems by Olzmann: “Previous Theories on the Body” and “The Skull of a Mastodon.”
