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I am in the main on the mend I am in Maine on the wagon on Katahdin in an animal skin I am a pencilmaker breaking a stolen mirror metaphor over the peak to make Maine lakes glint in sun I broke like a main clause over the forest of the page and paused to drink from a literal canteen
Copyright © 2012 by Ted Mathys. Used with permission of the author.
This morning I love everyone,
even Jerome, the neighbor I hate,
and the sun. And the sun
has pre-warmed my bucket seat
for the drive up Arsenal Street
with the hot car effect,
a phenomenon climatologists
use to explain global warming
to senators and kids.
July 2016
This is the key to the kingdom, rustproof
nickel silver, cut in the hardware aisle
by a man in uniform on a rotating steel
carbide blade, a vice securing the blank,
the key’s rounded bow a medallion of sun
with a hole punched through to hang
on its galactic ring. Weightless in the palm,
the shoulder is sharp to mark the exact
depth of engagement. A jagged range
of peaks garnish the shaft, align
with wards in the pin tumbler keyway
and unlock the door, swung open to reveal
It’s clear when, in membranous
predawn blue
I enter pines, mind on
embryo in amnion,
my tracks preceded
by those of the dog,
his by a doe’s, hers by six
hours of snow, it’s clear then
the distance between
my affections and ability
to touch their sinuosity
is itself a felt silence
called sun. Sun rises
without provocation
over a frozen stream that frustrates
reflection, but will