A poem for Kristi Wallace Knight
Numbered days stub hard enough
against the breathing soul,
and when they take an hour away
we stumble even more:
is it for this we left the trees
and stood up on the shore?
What say we wallow in the weeds
and crawl back to the wood:
damn fields and sharpened throwing sticks
and cookfires and the Good,
and calendared years that clot up death
in all we understood.