More than the shortest distance
between points, we are
the Stradivarius of work.
We make the meadow meadow, make it
mean, make it yours, but till the last
insurance policy is cashed in we will
never be immune to this
exquisite cruelty:
that the knots in all our posts remember limbs
they nested and were busy in and danced per-
chic-o-ree their loops between,
that the fury of their playfulness persists
in amputated roots.
Remember us
next time the little yellow bastards lilt
across your windshield. No one
no one is above the law.
From “A Barbed Wire Fence Meditates Upon the Goldfinch,” a poem in Don McKay’s Angular Unconformity: Collected Poems 1970-2014, which Jim Johnstone reviews at The Rumpus.
(via therumpus)