Succession

Either too broken
Or not crumbled enough
The faults placed squarely
On the backs of hands

Like a piano cover closing
Without announcement
Testing tarsals

With healthy fingers
On, say, a nail
Some industrial revolution fresco
A bustling Rivera or stoic Sert

Making passionate work
With calloused pads
And flowery visage

These accents of goal
Left in curled manuscript
Like a mezuzah
On the door of a Jewish home

Then again speaking the language
And bearing down with full palms
To make music on a table

There is no talk of revolution
But then again there is no talk of not revolution
The clarity is in the sentence
Dignity of labour, with head or hand

And the words we make up to balance
The soft breasts of wives and daughters
And the arcane variations for "father"
--
3.14.13
Evening Dispatch