Wednesday, August 17, 2011

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.

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