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Poetry

I’m not dead so what do I know.
It’s a box of bone I’m in. I work

the crash site, push glass bits
to the ditch with a broom.
A swift hit of spring
stuns me, but what’s that.

My soul’s not cracked in half
for its gold yet. It might be

bone in there, might be glass.
The glint of pearl, hint

of God in a swirl of snow
that’s all the talk—I slowed,

made my brain blank,
did not blink, still missed it.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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