Only let the body find the chime

In the country,
we save all the bits

of leftover string, the fat
that drips from the sides

of rusted nails. Waste not,
sings the crooked bird

in the clock that tells
the time a hundred ways—

or waste away.
In the afternoons,

when the sun begins to drop
through the thin atmosphere,

we sit on the porch
and begin our real work:

someone has to do it,
someone has to find the hollow

reeds through which the wind,
strafing through, might make

a different kind of sound
from the ones we know.


In response to Via Negativa: Open air cure.

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