But for two staves and baling wire
But for a fossil etch by some Portland grinder
 
But for this fisherman’s ghost trapped deep
But for his marrow and shafts
 
But for blonde September breezes
But for lichen splattered gray green
 
But for the happy sleep of voles and the crossing of a crow
But for shadows of rheumy toddlers limping about the yard
 
But for the seam and splint
But for the hunger that is this isle of pine
 
Could no Death’s head slab close haul
To worry the quick
Across the bight of time