<Previous      Next>

See they are not pretty.

Rods of fathers who beat their sons.
Blue-black toes on a working man’s foot.

Like the blank windows
of public housing,
they are private,
but testament. 

Like widows’ canes
they support everything brittle.

They hoop and nod. They blunder,
bird-dust, scoot.

All that, still can’t get loose.

Only a dark wind frees them,

them to wet sugar, pulp
for our feet. We are always walking,

but also can’t get anywhere.