by Emma Danes

I come back to the metronome:
its pent up nag of a prim aunt,
finger set to wag, bossy tuts
buttoned to the clip at its throat.
I have always known how to wind
it up, that rack of the key, those
clicks like a stick along railings
of the weight up the pendulum rod.
I like it tongue-tied on the shelf,
while late summer gardens let go:
branches laden with damsons,
sheets that soar and plunge on the line.