The sixth and late

April 6 13

Despite better inklings and nations, the broken femur is not a shakable stick.

There aren’t wood shacks where love is cut to pieces, or the scratched yowls

of cats ecstatic and fruitless let the sky retain its blue like a patch or passport.

Earned and singular, the thwack of blade against air – atta boy, chanced

for the umpire, the field gamed full of antlines – beer standings numb

umbers and carried away cartoon picnics. Watching each toy the paraffin

uncovers as it’s burned away. Future litter for park lawns, crated up

and cordoned off in austere public works projects. Look at

the light in the center of the rails it encroaches. Count the trestles

until the water’s passed. Waves in the curl. The distinct sense of persons

left still on its edges. If only one want could make the mountain

no longer shudder its hatch of empty shells. It’s an echo and contusion.

That landscape not the flat and monumented parchment we sat in,

talking the halo and taking its pale passing sounds down from the perch.

When the curt and lugubrious trees finally let their petals wash the ground

no one will calm the feet that pass. However many there are – one thwack,

two thwacking through.


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