← v7n2, Fall 2008
Poetry · Volume 7, Number 2

Children

When, beyond the patience of night’s long black grass,

they’re locked into that shape

of a small white chastity—it’s hardly this simple—

of their basic cells. It’s hardly

winterpond’s peaceful dose of sleep,

or Faulkner’s rosary. It’s what their hearts hold

that becomes truth,

as far as we know truth. It’s the gular pouch of their hearts;

it’s the trace of clacking

in their sky becomes the truth.