Thursday, November 06, 2003

Garlic and Sapphires in the Mud


There’s slim hope for the small --
a ring of bone, its peg.

We name the part and its breach:
Axis and Hangman’s,

C2 and traumatic spondylo-

When Atlas shoulders the world
he feints left, and right,

on a pivot that’s thin as a tooth,
baby’s first.

Sometimes axle tree means the sun.
I prefer the gallows

where Odin hung for nine days once, ashen,
but kept his head.

My axis met its Ragnarok head-on,
cracked, and held.


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