Hammer Sonnet

Hammer Sonnet 1920 1440 Dane Hamann

I worry the hammer writing its bite

in a script of bruises doesn’t distinguish

between fiction and prayer. I don’t ask

for much. Sunlight more like bed than whip

of gold. Or, in the afternoon, whisky

drizzle instead of a sky-shredded soak.

I ask that the hinges of my body

swing as smooth as a wet tongue over teeth.

These things don’t always come to pass. Instead

I learn that most times all the hammer tells

is distance. A long, long story of me

shaping myself and finally learning

to ask you to gather me as if I

were petals in the rush of a cold stream.

Header photograph © Caroline Bardwell.

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