Friday, July 20, 2012

When you are working


Like a child counting hairs upon his father’s chin
you forget that moment;
the losing of the dirt-specked floor
to the round bell of a clock’s pendulum.

The guard that lays his lower lip upon arriving trains
taps your shoulder, looking you over,
passing into darkness.

My soul staggers; the train rambles on,
the mountain wind chasing it through and its concealed shadow
is as loud as wood
when I knock it with my hands.

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