CORRINNE CLEGG HALES
A boy is stacking two full
from the driveway, where the old farm woman
alone in this business, dumped them
for school, it looked like a giant scrap heap
of one of those elaborate structures
shortly after construction.
stupidly behind the scrambled logs
tilting heavily toward the driver's side
of the body cringes, bashed in
was sideswiped today by a truck.
in the driver's window, which is now
of its frame. He is stacking the wood
his father taught him, on the porch still stained
his cat had slowly and emphatically torn to pieces
without resting, without even smelling
as he goes, each pie-shaped end
the same direction, a monument of firewood
of the house where his mother leans
that she is fine, that he should take a break.
as if it were artas if it weren't meant,