Knuckled up and stranded

he cinches his breath in sleep,   
under black and bottomless
water, no rope 
or anchor, 

                       no mother
                       to call. 
	
And if he opens his mouth 

the creek will surge, clog his cavity 
with sweetgum tea, pulling him 
back to a crippled childhood 
when he rode the mule 

                       and his grandfather set him
                       on the rock beneath the dam

where the water pounded 

first his head, then his knees,  
and he watched the field shimmer 
through a luminous curtain, 
inhaling the spirits of flow 

                       —purple mint, 
                       jimson weed— 

and understood what walking, 
and swimming, 

and flying were, though he himself 
couldn’t do it, twisted child 
in his papa’s wheelbarrow
waiting to grow 

                       out of the bucket
                       into his legs.

Now the metal and wheels and may I’s

come again, as spittle dangles 
and falls, spiritless, unclean, 
and oh how beautiful 
all the breakage in the world.