you got this boy walkin
in mine town hills
his blood's in the bricks and copper now
and his eyes are seasoned,
by these weights they're bowed

he is the maker of winter
hands trained blind,
for all his seasons in the soul's dark night

on a crow's call
and the gargle itch of Irish whiskey in a protestant throat
I think of him
think of his hands
that crinkle and dust
like the fall leaves that heal everything
being broken and smeared
into the hungry ground

he stows lessons in black lake waters
and does not negotiate their release
sometimes the smiling hoards of winter come
with violins and banjos
and my friend points them to the lake
where he set down his secrets

No comments:

Post a Comment