» Poetry
the crossing
we are building a viaduct
because we decided
this time,
we will not travel
underground, live in the great dismal,
drag our bodies through the marsh,
hide in the cattails.
in the plain view of daylight
above the gorge,
as high as millau in france,
our railway.
once we perfect the art of brick making,
you can decide how many are needed.
that woman over there, maybe she can
decide how many tons
our spillway can hold.
this old one with the braids
like a hive,
i hope she’ll teach us about
about steel.
she knows how to reduce
sulfur from iron to keep it strong.
look at her hands.
look at her crafted shoulders,
but do not touch unless you
are invited.
darlings, there is a job
for us too.
ours might be the gathering kind.
talkers sing like brave birds.
poets plow the top soil
dancers paint with perennials.
we will call all hands.
hurting hands are beautiful.
photographers shoot
for our annual day of remembrance.
we can alternate hosts. I’ll sign up for that.
we have all agreed, no borders. no borders. no borders.