Touchstones of a Keening Heart
There’s no way to
turn the moon
to cheese.
For water to
gurgle green
thru silage.
For the heart
to mend, tossing &
turning on a
bed of nails.
For the dream
to come true
once your
eyes open.
They give you
a thimble & a
six-inch length
of thread & say:
“Sew us a
garment as radiant
as Solomon’s!”
It’s hopeless
but you
set to work.
Was it a
hasty decision
back down
the line that
makes you as
alone at
80 as at 8,
or something
unavoidable?
& what is this
infestation that
still wonders why,
the only burr
left under your
saddle?
By now you
should be
riding bare-back.
These are the
scribbled notes
of a
wounded man
trying to
name his heirs.
But no one
steps forward to
don the mantle,
radiant but so
very small.
