THE STATE OF IT
The train
cuts across
the marsh.
The fence
cuts across
the forest.
The bridge
cuts across
the river.
Our stone, steel,
and electric bones
grow and grow.
Industriously,
we rib
the planet.
The rib cage
protects
the chest.
The chest
traps
the heart.
Our hearts
beat and beat.
We know
that someday
they won’t, still
we can’t help
but think
that this,
too,
is something
we can cut
across.
—from Rattle #84, Summer 2024
__________
M.P. Carver: “I write because I’ve never found anything that sidles up closer to the ineffable than poetry. A beautiful failure.” (web)
