Bringing the News—
when
the word is a scythe
cutting
below the knee so the time
it
takes to get to the ground is quicker
than
cut wheat—
when
solace that leaks out
of
the flower has severed
every
quiet day ahead and the breath is out
of
the hollow—
a
last a last but no one knows—
when
the blade is put away
after
it is stroked with a stone
spit
and stone,
to
mow, OH! and arc over
like
a great iron rainbow,
not
the dead, not the dead
but
the head
of
the brother of the dead who carries
a
bundle of clothes, who all the way
home
watches them
breathe
in
his lap, folded in the quiet.
It’s
frenzy and nothing absolutely
nothing
is clear, except the pants
and
a trinket,
a
shell or a sharp stone
Frank’d
found and it pokes his thigh
the
harder he O H !
leans
into it.
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