The pick-axe
strikes the air
between the leafless treesdying out of earshot in the field of weeds.
In the dust the bones
push through the skin—
night penetrates the eyelids
as the wind breathes through
slight flutter
in the lashes.
Suddenly flares up swiftly
like sparks in the darkness
when the end arrives—
a brief illumination locked
in the innermost back of the eye
where whatever was splays
the jaw wide open.
Down the slope forget-me-nots
the other side not now
though bloom there
mid-arc
in the mind’s downswing.
He feels a fervent
blister where a callous had been.
Each swing tears away the skin.
New tenderness
fills his hands.
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