Song of the Log Scaler’s Shack
In the morning of blue rowboats
and tossed on rock beaches,
we hold our hands up to the clouds
and marvel at the cut-outs
we tear from the checkered sky:
wrong-weighted hearts, the shapes
of minarets, tessellating gum
leaves, the sighs of flattened tree rings.
The shadows of our fingers
bend and beat like ripe trombones,
and in the space of your fur cap,
the lithe line of suntan, burnt strange
into your hands: the wood ash
of bucking, lips of wet sawdust
mount my cheekbones—until calling
from beyond the grove line
the smell of baked goat cheese
carries your coat back to your skin.
I bring my lips out to your ears
and say, helping on your caulks,
“To-morrow I’ll be here—”
