Windlass
 
 

Turning what I do for others into
what I do for myself.

                                    Twelve drops
of water on the window's bottom edge.

An edgy paralysis radiates
from my heart; my work takes
too much time.
Observations, corridored in a blue
smock, mocking the gray, snow sky's expansion.

I have too much.

To read in a distracted unsatisfying
manner, branches akimbo,
shuttling shadows along the parched
winter grass.

Turning what you do
for others into
what you do
leaves gaps in firm handshakes.

Touring hay shadow stacks -
Stubble from a three day shaving hiatus -
Motel pool blue -
Chipped air conditioner blue -

Blind glass in a shadow sticker bush, sparrows
confused by the narrow knuckles of azalea tentacles
and the upside down house.
What he did unto others was what they did unto him.
Circles in the straw.

Blue strawberries.
Strawberry blue.

We are all alike under the steady stream
of the motion sensor's droning light,
and we leave the blue lot carpooled.
 

four
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