Knives With No Handles
Out of
the after-quiet of harvest
the
empty heavens of a taut remark,
the
sure drought of a raised hand --
foggage
and dust across a brown field.
Still
for a blood harvest we sing --
you in
your frenzies, mine this disjointed
JimO’Biad
(with the dust and squandered hay,
our
voices flung by wind) --
to
soothe what doesn’t scan,
to make
a richer field for planting,
only to
return to the old domestic atmospherics,
familiar
weather patterns feeding a seasonal harvest
feeding
a sun-glinting scythe of hurt producing -- what?
Time to
think is like time gathering knives without handles.
-J. O'Brien
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