I chop wood
Left from that
Halloween storm
When snow settled
On the limbs
Still thick with leaves,
Whole halves of trees
Fell into the yard
Left entangled
Until I could risk
Blindness to cut
Them up.
I chop wood
And think of
The strange voice
On the telephone,
As if there is a connection,
Seeing her slanted lips
In my one good eye,
Each sawed limb
Breaking between
My already calloused
Fingers,
Yet with no inspiration
As to why I’m on
Her weather map,
Whether or not
She is a brewing storm,
Or merely a cloud burst,
Clouds in my coffee.
I saw wood
And try not to
Think of her,
Her slanted lips,
Or the weight of snow
And green leaves
That brought these
Limbs to my knees.
I chop wood.
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