June 25

comments 2
poetry

A hematoma where the shot
went in, sore arms and clouds–

that kind of aching morning
that passes too quickly

into day, piebald sky,
the palest blue,

a tepid invitation.
And down to the waterfront

the sound of progress,
or of progression, metal

frames sprouting up,
or expulsed from the earth–

a shower of sparks
by the welder’s elbow,

a joint, a joint is where
you feel it first, a change

in the weather,
a thing giving way

 

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