bar sinister
j.d. schraffenberger
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How shall we know
where to stand?
These bastard grasses!
The uneven lawn!
In sinkholes
where the pole-barn garage
and fence meet?
Now that you
have reached down
with unwrought hands,
down into the wax
of a dark and bloody ground,
gone rough now
and desperate,
now that we’ve
been scattered with heat
and deep-sea air,
been buried
in a bath of sand;
now that spaces between us
are divisions,
how might anything
be known?
Colors are quite ordinary.
The straining
through sedge
of feet: elevation
of the common place
to a call for prayer,
or place to love,
or simple land.
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