Healing Bells

Healing Bells

Every man misses opportunities. Let’s begin

by walking in tall grass along a farm, kicking

dirty rocks where car wheels cross. He trots
past a mound of millipedes, soft legs bloodied
with sun. The wheat chaff is sundry with
blossom, but the pollen, it floats fallow.

Every man asks for mistakes. In the dry
tool-shed, his hands feel the wood of
early winter. His fingers touch rust,
machine tears dried and flaked.

Copper, nickel, cobalt: here is
his harvest of the core.

Every man needs regret. Ask about family: he

will serve you bread in triangles of silver.

A bowl of citrus sits placid in repose.
Walking caulked on heels of bitter
grass, this is certain. Abysmal, a signal—

crows invade his porch-step, flying from

south. Ask about his family: he will tell you

every man has been pocked.