Saturday, July 17, 2021



Occupational Hazards


If I want to go to pieces

I can do that. When I try

to pull myself together

I get sausage.


Can't be choosers. Rising

from a white bed, from dreams

of kings, bright cities, buttocks,

to see the moon by daylight.


It's not the way the needle

drags the poor thread around.

It's sewing the monster together,

my misshapen son.


To be the baker's dark opposite,

to dig the anti-cake, to stow

the sinking loaves in the unoven —

then to be dancing on the job!


Deep in my hands

as far as I can go

the fallen trees

keep ringing.


David Young

The Names of a Hare in English

Pittsburgh 1979