Under the brim his eyes are cool,

as if he were regarding a calf;

Under his shirt his heart’s the hot,

empty pan forgotten in the oven.

Every step he finds his footing.

Slow, the dust barely moves.

 

The diamond in the east blinds the diamonds fleeting.

The dew in his beard reflects it, hence.

The ax handle he leaves at the fence,

Ten paces back.

His breath stays three.

Under his arm are his ribs.

 

Maybe levity crinkles the corners of his eyes.

The cows just stare, they steam.

A hum comes through those lips,

the frequency of October

and blood.

Ten days from now, a song.

His hands are loose,

like rubble after a bomb.