By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Grandfather Clock

Between the savage crags
we dug him up
with hands of earth and malice
a grandfather clock
pulled from the ground like
annihilating flowers,
peering through the shards
of his broken glass face
to know what the time was
when he stopped.

Simone and Sartre​

She was from the Sorbonne
and he from somewhere else
and together they were hardly monogamous,
at one point even being competitors for the same
teaching position, but he had his Algerian mistress
and she had hers, and each had their mind
above all else; a fierce intellectual humanism
they could agree on, so that even when the world failed them
and they disappointed one another as people, there was always the Idea
and a will to get it down.

B Sharp

you can almost hear the music
chewing fresh trenches
into this war

handing out magazines
whipping sentiments

that cylindrical eviction notice rattle
of empty aerosol cans

the resistance of fridge magnets
that can’t be bothered

when I sit at tables
my chair never once
enters the equation

and it is that sort of cruelty
that keeps us going
so much longer than
we should.

 

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and many mounds of snow.

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