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ArtistTea for one.A solitary man sits beneath an enormous clock, its motionless hands casting prison-bar shadows. One minute stretches into a corridor of endless days; faded sunlight pools around an empty chair. A distant woman dissolves beyond a doorway he cannot reach. His once-proud silhouette bends beneath regret, abandoned sheet music curling at his feet. Dense, melancholic surrealism, oppressive stillness, fractured memories, cold blue shadows, exhausted amber light. No text.
the large clock
they put a clock that size
above a man
and expect him
to get on with things.
i sat with my hands
on the table.
good hands.
they had earned a living
and packed the suitcase
when i left you.
the chair held up.
the table held up.
sunlight came through the window
without needing
anything from me.
i watched the minute hand.
somewhere you were doing
ordinary things,
opening a drawer,
looking for a spoon.
i could have been there,
getting in your way.
instead
i had this whole room
and nowhere
to put my hands.