17 June 2016

Poem-A-Day #109 : Pastoral


the knuckle of the grass is a black doorknob - a shine to it - so many hands - like the nose on the tomb of Elizabeth I in Westminster - the particles of these hands mingling with that metal edifice - a sort of smelting

the knuckle is bending and that is why it is a knuckle - the grass thickly bends in the wind off the mountains - the Sandias are not pink today today there is a creamy haze over them - there is a fire pushing out the smell of burning piñon - a factory of smoke piling on the horizon - the cotton batting from a quilt spilling out after being torn open by a child or dog

it is shiny because it is grass and the joints of plants are always shiny - like the flesh is stretched just to the point of tearing - it is a swollen knuckle - an old woman knitting knuckle - you can hear the cartilage pull

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