There was a kind of poetry that called
For humbly manly language about barns,
Mowers, livestock, guns, and trout streams,
Every word unvarnished but joined and sanded,
Tongue and groove, by calloused minds,
That sort of thing. You advertised the craft,
Showed the authenticity of material, boasted
Only implicitly by showing patient, honest labor.
I miss it. A little bit. It was like opening a cabinet
Of oak and cedar to see how smoothly drawers
Slid, how neatly the doors and lids shut
With a click, knowing the proportions were
Useless except for storing jewelry and delicates,
The world being wild, no matter how we tame it,
No matter how we tame ourselves, no matter
How we shape our ends to fit it. The storm
That knocks the oaks and cedars all to splinters
Doesn’t pause at well-made walls and furniture.
Carve it how you will, you can’t commune with it.
The past you cut and shaved cannot contain
The streaming prey and predatory future of it.
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