When called, I come. I fetch
what was flung far afield

and bring it back, if not broken
then newer than new. I'm not 

the only one who's ever left
parcels at the door; who dismantles

heat from the burn, scab from scar,
webbed poultice from the wound.

Observe how, in little children,
the mouth opens in a soundless cry

before the mind registers the hurt.
Out of the hollow of the throat,

a vibration to exceed the bonds
holding molecules of glass together. 

What a surprise to learn breaking
can also be achieved an octave lower.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.