By Karina Borowicz
He comes to understand
the spirit abiding in each scrap of wood
that passes through his hands
every child is born he says
knowing the language of trees
for so long our unformed ear
is pressed to the wall of eternity
with his hands he smoothes the wood
from which a face is beginning
to emerge
tools rest at his feet
the blackened little knife
a bent nail
Previously published in Contrary.
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