Nothing is Forbidden

Nothing is Forbidden

Look, dear, the heirloom clock
keeps time seven minutes slow.
Seven minutes in a closed poem.
And nothing is forbidden.
Boundary's an assumption,
and that which we cannot fathom.
The pendulum can't catch,
it seems, the fleeting minutes.
Or perhaps it's the gonging
lags behind, doesn't adjust
for the time I spend winding
or cleaning, or the week
that I forgot, and time just stopped.