We Do Not Know What We Do Not Know
The drops sound like rocks thrown in a steel tub;
the window glass taps, Not today. Not today.
Dust to mud, the crew and I lay sod
and expect New England. I should listen.
My grace is sufficient, Brother Slade reminds us.
He and I take off our shoes and stand stooped,
washing. He is tall for a Bible man and with red hair.
The air is almost oceanic. I do not trust him.
Everything dies, I tell him a lover I once had
said that each night. Slade rises to bend backward,
his hand on his hip, his eyes open straight to the sun.