This is one of the strongman days, red
rust on the rock, a voice pumped up
on sun, then rain—reliable rain—
and snow on the steady peaks.
Swallows
swooping out of the blue
& dipping,
diving their hearts out, man oh man,
this may be a weak day ~
raven holds the swing vote
& you know
he’s in with his beak.
I am in my black suit,
also swaying sillily from the middle.
Nothing is as loveable
as the middle from the edge—
Something weighty
drops,
is falling,
something from
the inner ledge,
the sound of it
confounding
down, the
old thought-wanting
round & round
& here I go
again,
again.
O, purify me.
Circumcise
this mind.