Like some fall into the army,
the quick of commerce,
or whoredom, shield, the battlefield
soil, I fell
into the clear faces of a transposing
river. I woke to my father’s
unprotected poverties, was schooled
by the slow
unbraidings of his dreams. I know
it is only luck to be unmistakably
loved. Affection bloomed,
trumpeting the hillsides,
the orchard valleys, and stopped
itself short of pillage. Guarded so,
vines suckled sun and drew winds
to the root.
Low clouds now, darkling a June
Rain. A tender roof of tin.
I care. I am listening
for the fruit.
from Tender the Maker
First appeared in Alehouse Review