a poem for the Hayses
In a dark and sullied work shed
lined with feathered wood shelves
and splintered work benches
I am the pointed,
red-rusted fire poker
hanging across two dirty nails,
and you are the sharpening stone.
You scrape my dullness
to a point, you scratch my jagged
edges smooth.
I keep you strong
and make you stronger.
Monday, July 26, 2004
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