Blood-Clock in Hancock, New York



Blood clock of January, you’re ticking.

Ritual and bandaged, you bind.

My friend texts a picture of persimmons,

to which I respond permissions!

Cause a robot doesn’t know what fruit is.

All a robot wonders is am I allowed.


How will the robots translate our art

history of blood: dogs ripping a hog apart

on a snow just like this snow. On a day just

like this day—a January day. An elemental day.


When my blood-clock first started,

I thought war was a thing to learn 

from a book. I thought by now a robot

would know fruit when it sees it, could taste

a peach and say, pick it! And that the Delaware

River would be bigger than this.


I assumed ticking was a myth.

I thought time was a carousel I was

already riding. Now I’m bleeding

on the snow, ticking like the hog.