Aug 312011
 

My breast is a burning anvil
Cannot hammer a likely shoe
Stern enough to trace unglued
A racing lifetime through and through.

My breast is a burning anvil
Full of causal smokes and coughs,
More than youth at times had thought,
Between hammer and anvil caught.

My breast is a burning anvil
That sparks with the loss of heat
When edge and edge, hard and hard, compete
To shape each and each to mate.

My breast is a burning anvil
Cannot cease to pause or cool,--
As industrious, dedicate a tool
As any I'd forgot I forged.

My breast is a burning anvil
Full of tragic din and error
As any beating thing that mirrors
The hotness of my terror.

My breast is a burning anvil
Cannot pound out a likely star
As real as evening's first clear
At whose clarity I stare.


Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.