The delicate chains are brass but
The rest of it is bronze except
The weighing pans which
Are made from amber-colored shells.
My grandfather and his father
Were watchmakers and, at times,
Jewelers but what use do I have
For their scale accurate to some
Preposterous fraction of a gram?
It hangs on my wall. Occasionally
The pans tremble, seeking balance.
In couples or alone, shades
Cross the wide square
One leads a dog; a few
Carry packages. Two horses
Pull three deceased friends
In a carriage. There's ample roon
But they sit close together.
One of them thinks about you;
He calls to your grandfather's ghost
That you are still in the world.
Like others of his trade
The God of Baskets wanders
Carrying on his back
Or, when he can afford one,
On a small donkey’s back,
The wares he’s made.
At night he lights a candle
And answers prayers.
When he was young he would
Wager he could make baskets
From anything, from flint
Or iron or time itself. Once
He made one from moonlight
It weighed nothing but could hold
A lifetime's collection of regrets
As well as a good lunch
And makings for a cup of tea.
To the extent I understand gods
(Which is to say not at all
And just as well) I believe
Egyptian gods are
Jacks of all trades, willing
To turn their hands, feet,
Claws, paws, talons or pincers
To any task. Sobek,
The crocodile god, can
Be kind and generous. Seth
Despite often manifesting
As a ferocious hippopotamus
May, if you ask him,
Make a dancer of you. I find this
Reassuring but not the fact
That Isis, the All-Merciful Mother,
Carries a very sharp knife
And can be quick to use it.One sphinx tells
Another "We
Guard the house
Where Voltaire died."
"Yes," says the other,
"You've mentioned this
At least 7000 times."
Setting a long exposure, Atget
Leaves the room. His camera,
Wearing deep black,
Remains behind taking
It's own picture, raging
That the other machine
Says nothing, nothing,
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
This narrow road waits
For someone to walk on it
The street lantern will light
And windows will fly open
To mark her passage.
The city's seven corners
Will send cats to see,
To remember, to recount
Things they saw and
Things they'll invent.
Me? I won't need to listen
To the cats' reports.
If the walker, long-awaited,
Is you I'll know by the slender noise
Of your recidivist shadow.
