Arts + Scene » Poetry

For the Fallen Barn



Now born open to ordinary light
this body,
carpentry of life inside life inside life;
worn, empty as silence,
the heaved and buckled beast, nose down in prayer,
bows to the wind. Allowed
no crushing machines, no swallowing fire,
just the slow, sure pull home.
Here, this corpse of bones, nests in spring grass;
the current of geese above.


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