Woodknot

1

A hard thing to break

is scartissue. Ligaments

& tendons

snap with bone, twist thru muscle

but this torque gnarled with wire & horn

gives way only to fire,

& that last.

That 1001b blueshark we cut up for chum—

everything went cheerfully

thru the meatgrinder but the liver casing:

I ground & ground

while it writhed

unscathed in coils of steel

& plopped on deck. I picked

it up thinking

of the glint

in the slack skin of a scar knotting my arm.

2

Woodknot: a shadow never strays from it,

voice of a shadow

heard only in flames, in

resinous steam.

Up north it tells

where streams draining ponds

point downcountry, toward home.

Offshore

the barometer in its grip

falls faster

than celldoors close or termites

eat celluose to tinder.

Even the hardest texts

fracture

in the stress of their own making.

3

Thumbjoint

cantilevered into arthritic archways,

winch clutch suddenly unfreezing,

chainsaw

shying away from a cedar hip in deadly

abrupt recoil:

these things I can take

only in rest

that rust

in which I hear myself snoring,

by which I keep tuned

all the scars crossing my voicebox

but one

torchcut by my captain spinning the wheel.