The gar weaved around the moon Like a child running down the road Towards the next lighted house Asking help for his mother Things move so fast Make the dirt in the keyholes Soft again Blood comes back To your blisters And the axe blade warms up like coffee A monk slops the hogs And you lace up your boots You might not tote lame girls Across thin rivers like I do You might not want to hunt down the dog Locked in the gym© Ginny Stanford