between summer and night
ray heinrich
in the field blue cornflowers are everywhere
and the back porch opens to the field which opens to the bay
and from the porch
the green of the field
becomes
the green of the marsh
becomes
the green of the bay
this door i'm carving started with a face
it became yours
i fastened a small brass knob
(and careful instructions for polishing it)
and i turned it
hoping
(as always)
to open it
and for the light
(i imagined)
to pour into the room
to pour into the canyons
with statues
mounted on every word
and to feel the press of splinters from the wood itself
a tissue
a vein
a small nerve forgives
(sometimes)
as the chisel waits for the hammer to press it along your face
the mantel of pink and blue becomes sunset
and the path and the pines become the beach
and the smell of roses
presses between summer and night
and i try to copy them
but all i have is this hammer
and this chisel
too sharp for your face
and there was this dream
and there was this day
and you forgave me in one
but not the other
i slipped and your face bled
and your red competed with the sun
and with the low pines crying in the breeze
and with the bone-white gulls
who can trace your cheeks exactly
but all i have is this hammer
and this chisel
that slips into fingers
that can only bleed
