sound of an analogue watch

Underground trains; a celebration no one has heard of; the way snow retreats. None of these things has ever gone according to plan. How efficiently a small spring contains echoes. I was no longer in a lyrical zone and as a result, unable to assimilate anything else. While weather sorted itself out, I blunted my enunciations even in the briefest conversation. Something she said brought to mind a series of jacaranda blooms and torn mailing receipts. If I make mine a wish for wisdom, that might allow for medium compatibility, or at the very least unconscious integration. We are all bound together by the height of an untamed wing. Notice how the birds are awake again, disclosing their full migrant melodies.


Lynette Ng is originally from Malaysia, but she now lives near Boston in Massachusetts. She has an MFA from Mills College and has been published in several journals including the Beloit Poetry Journal and the Indiana Review. She is deeply appreciative of strong black tea and al dente pasta.

Eleventh Hour illustration by C.B. Auder.

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