Ken Craft (6 Poems)

Underfoot Poetry

from the collection The Indifferent World

Trigger

This is where I held
my breath—
a stand of red pine,
needles and snowdust
scribed about my boot,
cold crescent
resisting a swollen
finger itchy-numb
with November.

This is where a buck
held its breath—
mouth mid-meal
amid the mast,
a single line
of berry drool
spiking the fur
of his white and
wild-cherried chin.


Idyll

Each day brings the wedding closer.
Clapboard and trim painters.
Window washers, florists, a house
under siege.

I wish
I were a Breughel peasant
far away, under a sky pricked and paled
by August sun.

Scythes whistle. Sweat-soaked muslin
kisses our backs. Kerchiefed
maidens swing in rhythm, while a rick
wagon with wheat-strained ribs
waits in back. Swaddling its shade.
Its cool, corked jugs.

Let us stop here
and rest, limbs splayed
with the sweetness
of fatigue. Let us drink this wine.
Open these wicker…

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