Between stations, where every voice ever, where every ud and trumpet…

Sometimes the weight of it is too much…

It took a backhoe to dig below the frostline…

In its original sense: to shape with the hands—

Some bridges, like cats, arch up from a long wary sleep and plant their paws shore to shore…

Down every avenue, hunched
in a doorway is the shadow of fear.
Call it. It will come like a cat…

If I am slow enough, quiet enough, long enough…

To do poor well, take down granny’s black skillet…