The Air Above the Yards of March • David Troupes
I
All the fine crystal is breaking
in evening’s furnace-mouth,
and smoke sails high over the town
while there, under the power lines,
in that wild swath,
a boy walks a world of his making.
II
Rain spits into the hard
unready earth, winter-burned elms
tangle a low sky dragging north over the town,
and in a kitchen
a pittering calm
settles, like a thought we had once all shared.
