Wood
I work with pliant wood
as the plane curls shavings
to the floor like prayer
rakes anger from my speech.
I shape, knowing
all wood cannot be limned
as shelves and planks; some
are spindles, others frames.
The ash’s grain flows
like rivers to an alluvial delta
and I rhythmic water
that breaks it as I sand.
I cannot share with you
every thought that passes.
At times, words like wood
are better sealed.
Bionote
Jeff Burt has work in or forthcoming in The Cortland Review, Story Shack, The Homestead Review, phren-Z, and Typehouse. He won the 2011 SuRaa short fiction award, and enjoys freshly sharpened pencils, miniature plums, and the prong of a tulip breaking soil in the spring.
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