Please tell me how the shoehorn manages to keep
Its shape the same for centuries. At dusk my ignorance
Slips away and hides its eggs in the woods.
We all know when a great man or woman
Is about to die; and we fight that. Many of the Jews
Wanted to speak privately to Pilate.
Our parents’ faces at dawn have so much grief
That they resemble those stone faces on Easter
Island, gazing toward some missing Friday.
Iron and earth are an old couple who have lived
Together for eons. As with all bad couples,
It takes immense energy to separate them.
After every one of our wars, the newly dead
Hold out a cup to us. What can we do
But testify to a thousand years of darkness?
As a boy I saw the hitch slide off the drawbar.
I sensed how difficult my life would be the night
I heard the sound of iron hitting the ground.