Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Rory hit the wall with a silence,
like the sound a skull drum shakes.
Rory felt like a clay pot
crumbled before it bakes,
in oven-hot hands that
burn til they ache.
Rory lost grip, felt as brittle sticks
snapping beneath tines of a rake,
without an ounce, an inch,
a peck, a pinch it might take
to understand how
an olive-pit breaks.


  1. Lovely rhymes in an interesting poem. I especially like "brittle sticks
    snap beneath tines of a rake." With all those glottal stops, it's a fun piece to read aloud. My sympathies to Rory.