Friday, March 04, 2005

the moors


They are waiting
on the horizon or just past,
swords in hand

capable of anything. This
news sends all
into secret rooms

to rifle drawers
for whatever weapons
and valuables

may be carried off
before all
is inevitably lost.
fence line


these hills are matted
with such grass that the fencepost I hammer
rings and rings, jerking

at last breaking through
silent, piercing the dead now,
the hammering almost easy

and weak, my hands
ache as I stretch them
up and up, old-looking and tired.

I watch how my small
fence line creeps over
the old old hill one post at a time

so when I am done
it will keep out almost nothing
and let in almost everything.