Aug 122011
Write a poem, Buckaroo!
It's only Levinworth, hard
labor if you don't.  Break the big
rocks into smaller rocks day
by day filling your lungs with stone
dust until you can't sing--at first
you get stronger straining
your back like a trout arching
homeward uppa waterfall until
after awhile the rhythm beguiles
you you don't notice how numb
your hands are how the sun has made
you old in one afternoon and
all the water isn't enough to slake
what thirst arises!  
                     Now who put
a moon in my sky and why
am I standing on this high mound
of small stones--tears of the moon?

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