The Hand of Time by Peter Magliocco

You tried to escape yourself
& transcend crucifying daily matters
you were captive in, whatever
sealed the bottled vacuum of need.
Didn’t we beckon to the sun gods enough?
Those who thought they’d frolic forever
& change the purblind world
were inert ashes beneath bare feet,
stopping the big clock’s fateful wend.
Back to the first second of time
nomads saw the evening trend
of the mystery trance around us.
No one could break the linkage
between life & death, sun or moon.
American pioneers crossed the plains
singing of life in a deeper valley
with virtual sameness to worship in.
The terrestrial clock stopped
again as the new hour became old,
minutes dancing on wily fingers
of a slain Indian’s severed hand
raining bloodlust in deserts of love.


Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in small press circles for several years. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium from The Medulla Review Publishing.


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