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.