← v13n1, Spring 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 1

Of Hardship

I cannot explain the vision I had

this morning beside a fatherly oak—

(onlookers rushing in every direction—

smoke below the lecture hall’s

pocked ceiling (how it feels—or

how I imagine it?) and the quick,

caustic tang—burnt powder

rich as speech, but no understanding

onward through blood–dark

stitching of brush, rain, and reed

resisting, little lanterns of pain . . .

To make the burden bearable

I speak or even sing into the gloom

as I walk, my shoulders burning

sweetly apart, smoke in the air . . .)

Nothing I couldn’t understand in it.