Friday, February 13, 2015

Knives With No Handles

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

*Foggage is the dying grass left after harvest or grazing season is over.
 

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