Grindstone
My
job, to turn the hand forged
handle
in the direction opposite the one
that
felt right to me, feet planted
in
the cool lee of the low smoke
house,
rough lap boards weathered
black,
shedding ages of charred notes
against
a soaring score of distant
blue
chords, hands on the crank
I
bend to the work of falling
beguiled
to an endless ribbon of road
born
slick and wet from a new moon
trough
of threadbare tire as she silvers
the black
grin of the blade,
low
murmur of wary hens lost
in
the lull of steel on stone.
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