another house wherein stones are thrown

or on the verge of



Hid hard within the corn valve
we heard the heart surgeon huffing near,
we fanned low toward the pond then barn
and thru its door-yaw

into hay smell,
clambered up ladder to loft to look out
some small window.
The planks felt good to be on.

We can get im.
We each had rocks to throw at the heart surgeon.
Darcy had his sling shot, Arthur his bb gun.
Don't shoot him, Arthur. That's dumb.

But me and Darcy wanted Arthur to shoot
the heart surgeon with his gun.
We seen his shadow we seen his gait.
Loudly amid the noondday blaze

him treading our way. Whistling.
We hated that the most.
Sweat, straw and dust, beating in the blood.
Empires at stake and us just there.

some few particulars

Of boy and rock and train and time
when you gripped a rock in hand as
you crouched for the train to pass.
Inert, held by the absent speech-
filled self on that tension drilling day.
Rock. Hand. Heat. Crow?
Ruins are made in revising.
And so being overfills its waiting
and whiteness of stone and whiteness
of flesh collide as that moment unfolds,
folds out toward you, rushing
the train toward you as you rise
into your tightly wound purpose:
one second of release into violence
to find a flooded emptiness
in an impress of rock.