Marc Cohen
SHEEP TO SHEARS
I am to injury
nothing but this.
Though brilliant
at the surging surf,
never existing by prince
and pauper tides,
sorted by him and chosen
once in this verity,
he never beat his wife.
Call it patience
or understanding.
Like bitterness, he laughed.
The voice is sandy
and ghosts.
In
the tank
village we are guilty.
UFO fragments torment
this watch. He is not moving
but rather painting
a feeling not yet here.
What will mother think?
The wooden pain
brushed on the ocean front
with an innocent drop
was his blackguard duty.
I lost a part
of the middle finger,
small and left
in Far Rockaway, victim
to a tin pail, a crack
and myself. Li ttle to be
known, journeys that begin
at dawn and stop
in dumb night.
