poem

Grand Island

If you were to ask

I might tell you about

the condition of the road

from the dock to the bay,

a flat ribbon twisted

into knots under

our tires, wound tight

enough to wring sweat

from half-buried

shoulders of limestone,

pent coils spun out into

sand beds that clamped and

held us like gnats in amber.

Maybe I could say something

about the clay we dug

from the seam in the

rock and smeared across the

bridge of our noses,

in green

and red bands down

our chests. I might

mention how easy it

looked from the beach

watching him clamber

up over smooth rock,

fingers reading the grain

for camber and bevel,

keeping quiet on the

matter of my own

jackknife lurch to the

top.