Asher Blake’s Thwarting Ground


Thwarting Ground

At last it is me I meet –
I mean the mole.
My pinhole eye
opens on the inside,
and the torn stair of childhood,
the crib-crawl drag,
all half-swilled tales,
and each jagged scissor edge
cohere in me like some collage.

I open on the inside
like some ceaseless
spangled housefly,
artless, paranoid –
his buttressed eye
bears all. His fur fangs
hang clean as they can get.
I cannot say why, for my life
I cannot say why, I cannot sing my
sigh. All the town comes skating

on my pangs, creaking on their sharp
stroking merriment.
It is a warm spring day
when children jump the thin ice
down like a scared cat,
when old men’s noses
begin to differ.
There is a rose and fond thorns.
And again a sweaty band
inside the hat.

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