John M. Anderson
Tower clock bulked
to a beech trunk pierced with candles
for the three kings this evening, wax weeping
down the tree’s jowls.
Children dance in starched white
dirndls a ring around the tolling square,
tiny gears in their silken hair, rumpled hose
sweeping every footfall dandelion milkweed tube—
foop, foop and the long spring’s gruff inhalation.
Return to Spring 2008 Table of Contents