BULLET HOLES: A MEMORY

 
    The mountains hovered as scene-
    props over us, firs falling

    into our chain-sawed 
    hands like brothers after-bars

    and sun bit our skin
    day after day

    with its glorious tooth.

    I remember driving so many gears
    down a corkscrewed road

    that threatened to turn
    every timber into

    the white-capped soup
    so far below the rocky shoulder.
 

    Those were days
    that sank into the river

    sweaty and 
    naked with fatigue.
 

    Every noon 
    ate our arms into

    ghosts 
    of sawdust.
 

    Now that peaks have worn
    into photographs
 
    and grey hair
    has become a weapon,

    I advance my face into the blue
    skies of memory, how time lived tight

    with us in a cabin
    of innocence: Why should

    anyone care
    that a young rifle

    fired at tin-cans lined across
    dry logs as if the years

    could be knocked
    down--bang, bang, bang.
 

                                                                  --David Radavich
 
 
 

 


 
 

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