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A vacant hour before the sun— and with it a valve's pneumatic hush, the deep and nautical clunk of wood, chanson du ricochet of rivet gun, trowel tap, and bolt drawn— the moon sets and water breaks. Curled within a warm pleroma, playing for time, you finally turn and push your face toward November's glint of frost, grains of salt, weak clarities of dawn.
Copyright © 2010 by Devin Johnston. Used with permission of the author.
Done with mortise and tenon, linseed oil and wax, she stands back from the highboy to snap a photograph with her phone, all the while, defending a shim to absent interlocutors who have, admittedly, never seen her work and died three hundred years ago.
When he turns fifteen, you'll be fifty-four. When he turns thirty, you'll be sixty-nine. This plain arithmetic amazes more than miracle, the constant difference more than mere recursion of father in son. If you reach eighty, he'll be forty-one! The same sun wheels around again, the dawn drawn out and hammered thin as a copper sheet. When he turns sixty you'll be gone. Compacted mud, annealed by summer heat, two ruts incise this ghost-forsaken plain and keep their track width, never to part or meet.