The Brass Escapement

Dust gathers on the silent gear, a breath of copper in the darkened room, where tension sleeps inside the spring. The hands are frozen at a forgotten hour, pointing to a morning that never broke.

Oil dries in the tiny hollows, and the pendulum hangs like a plumb line seeking a center it cannot find. We listen for the heartbeat of the brass, but only the house settles in the cold.

Yet in the stillness there is motion, the slow oxidization of the face, a green patina spreading like a map. Time measures the machine that measured time, taking back the metal piece by piece.