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This poem is taken from PN Review 119, Volume 24 Number 3, January - February 1998.

Wheels Gwyneth Lewis

I The Heir

After my aunt died,
I came in a car
to fetch the old clock with care from the house.
My small car was full
so there was nothing to do
but remove the pendulum, stretch
out like a corpse in the fine casing
and treat my inheritance like a coffin
all the way home.

                               Along the lane
the bushes bowed to show their respect
for the departed. Inside
the column, punctually, I rotted,
each second a tick in my elegant belly,
keeping perfect time. I slept heavily.

A curious journey. But when we got back
my resurrection was strange to see
and I could feel the swing of the lead
...


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