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About this Poem 

“This poem is one of fourteen poems called ‘Time’ in my forthcoming book, The Falling Down Dance (Coffee House Press, 2015). It’s an invocation of sorts, a launch. Electric time, geologic time, sea time: there’s no end to the durational array.”
Chris Martin

Time

Among many tongues may clang
the bell of ten thousand names.
A clepsydra with veins of blood.
A caravel on a tide of bloodletting
is also our necessary clock, so
the he who is I at the
time lets out my elephantine toll.
Vein of granite, vein of quartz.
Piezoelectric hum wherefore
we cast a tiny ear of water, we
who clang and unmoor our fleet.

Copyright © 2015 by Chris Martin. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2015 by Chris Martin. Used with permission of the author.

Chris Martin

Chris Martin

Chris Martin is the author of The Falling Down Dance (Coffee House Press, 2015), Becoming Weather (Coffee House Press, 2011), and American Music (Copper Canyon Press, 2007). He is a visiting assistant professor at Carleton College and lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. 

by this poet

poem

All that happens happens

in the hollow

mouth

open mid-vow

knowing

only song will do

what an empty cave needs

done, drone

that seeds to fill

one space and then that

space’s space, what

are we made

poem
for Ben Estes
So taste
as day
rearranges the red
and orange flowers
from tongue to tongue
like losing the cymbal's 
clang for all its glints
we crept behind the moon
which always insists on sleeping over 
barely a belly for a mouth
an hour past the movie
we were still filming 
the
poem
                    I was out interviewing clouds         amassing
                    the notes of a sky pornographer    while patches


                                             of the city subnormalized
by fear of fear            like a reef bleaching closed


                    I took to the streets