Lux Labor
Remember the maw of the shears
surrendered to a shake shingle shed,
which stands on the edge of a sleeve
of meadow next to the woods,
and our words like dirt stuck to shovels
that now are the quiet instruments
of the trenches we dug, and the road
clearing its throat of the day’s last traveler,
as a summer moon begins to thread
the mountain laurel, and the stars
show through the moth-eaten sky,
a wea...