The Street to Heaven
Listen
To the snow falling on the narrow gauge
Steam screaming from the engine shunting at
The Work
Here
The hand holds the cigarette
Rubs the stubbled chin
Conscientious in the
Cold boom of the wind and
Wire Sharp voices
He has headaches now
and compassion
silent like the rising ash smoke
Falling as grey snow
Over their sickly-sweet flurries of Shame
The Village of Brzezinka
History can
Pare at the patterns of incident
Soften what was so Violent
Tear down
The blunt letters of the past
The grained dovetailed world
Where corners could not bite and
Whorled knots sat smooth gloss
My hands gnarled hard in prayer fear That
Fear the place of silver trees
Where the air hunger
and life
Lopping up and down
Now I have roused them
Run my hands through the sharp bone dust
I pity
Copyright © 1997 by Robert James Berry
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