Bridle and martingale,
the crupper’s strap and buckle,

hobble and tassel binds

Theirs is a heroic lot, cast away
and glistening so silently among the rubbish.
There are so many secret places

It must be cold in the ground these winter mornings.
            The man who delivers the paper drives
            up our hill each dawn, and the news arrives

As capable a troupe of super-
stars as we could hope for.
But which one, having dressed

He could be on acid, the way he holds them
to the light and stares. “Wow,
man. Heavy. Oh wow ...”

You’ve left a hole
the size of the sky
in the chair across the table

He labored above the impassable coast
where gulls hovered to their nests on rock,
shy youth worrying his dream-drenched songs.

At Christmastime in sixth grade I gave out
three dozen Berol Black Warrior pencils,
gifts for my classmates. (All the boys

Vegetables embody overlooked power. Think of your mother
standing over you when you wouldn’t eat spinach
and Bush turning his back on bouquets of broccoli.