It’s odd that the shoe horn has been able to preserve
Its shape over centuries. At dusk my ignorance
Slips away and hides its eggs in the woods.
Everyone knows when a great man or woman
Is about to die, and fights that. Many of the Jews
Wanted to speak privately to Pilate.
Our parents’ faces at dawn have so much grief
That they resemble those stone faces on Easter
Island, gazing toward some missing Friday.
After every one of our wars, the newly dead
Hold out a cup to us. What can we do
But testify to a thousand years of darkness?
Iron keeps calling to earth, and earth to iron.
If you throw a knife high in the air,
The knife soon curves over and sticks in the soil.
I guessed how difficult my selfishness would
Be when I heard the sound the hitch makes
When it slides off the drawbar onto the ground.