A poem a week until the entire book is blogged. See also Collected Poems

Monday, July 17, 2017

Clevis

"There was a word for that -- I am forgettin' it;
forgettin' things I thought I'd never not know --
like I once understood th' way a shackle will turn

to follow th' wire rope reaching back to th' pulley,
or which way th' water will run when it falls
from th' crook of an east-leaning alder in th' rain,

or run from an alder's elbow that leans west,
when th' storm comes in, always from southwest.
Oh, th' word! A short one, I should be able to just

say it! ... Clevis! Yes, we called a shackle a Clevis,
I don't know why. So, John, he picked up th' Clevis
and hung it on th' drawbar of the Cat, slipped

th' loop onto it, and reached to set th' pin;
but Alley, he thought he'd heard John say 'Ready,'
an' put her into gear. So. That wire rope

sang just like a bowstring, an' th' Clevis
rotated right around th' slot in th' drawbar
an' went through John like he was made of suet.

He stood there for a moment -- like me now – 
trying to remember. Fixin' in his mind
what it had been like, bein' alive."




2 comments:

  1. When a poem leaves thinking - and searching for the right thing to say - and not finding it, so still thinking 5 minutes later- that's a good poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thank you, Mr. Greenpa. You are one of my heroes, and this means a lot to me. Three bows.

    ReplyDelete

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