From the Fishouse

Early one morning on my way for iron,
autumn arrived, pocking the ground

with ovenbirds, nicking the white knives

of poplars, their scissored bracts, keeping
track of small fatigues: cords of wood,

the leaf-fall that finally levels. Decay

opens out like a colt, composure working
backward towards panic. Always this

pall before the hoof-step, the damp knit

of soil, wooded underbelly, muted
like a crown of maples. In this I have

fixed the thought of ore: a hammer exacting

after the lift of it has passed, iron as dull
want; vise, a dark stall. I say forge to ready

the legs, to coax the knuckled trunks still.