As promised, here's a poem from Night Work, one of the books I'm giving away this month. I used to keep this poem taped above my desk.
In Indiana
Dead hogs swing in the barn--
discordant pendulums
holding the hour. She braces
each sheep with her thighs
and the wool spills over
like foaming beer. It is
just necessary, nothing
exotic. While the doves
sleep, her pelvis and arms
force time across one
deliberate axis, leaving
the sheep to shiver in
their new blue skin.
This is how the past
becomes the past. This
is how the work gets done.
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