Somebody is working. The afternoon gnawed ragged by cold,

pimpled with the suck and spit of a colt’s breath.

I heave my awe (all of it) onto nana’s window. Watch one spin

and wobble. Drill the bent crown of a man’s head.

Once, months ago, he let me keep a shoe. I ran home

clutching it. Pined beyond pining. Later, remembered

his busted hands, his coiling hair. The knell

of old steel. His breath a scald of steam in the soaked air.