out of the school bus window
waiting to pass by the
sheriff’s car, state trucks,
and picks swung ripping through
the spring damp earth shoveled high
above
the wild seed, buried
spirit’s
breath, swelling
earth,
round and full
brow
raised
by
one whose eye rolled
deep into its corner
stealing past
a well-aimed gun
such small windows
crack
who knows when
gravel, stone, or bullet hits
and some rough seam
splits
both sides
into
a back-road kid who
wears the un-ironed cloth
of a poor man’s son,
the coarse-grained shirt
that rubs its sleeve
across his lips
to wipe away the morning’s
milk and crumbs
before he spits
and rubs and
spits, and rubs
his sleeve
against the cleared
glass view holds out
beyond his reach,
a morning breeze
and
a working crew –
chain gang, around him
words that slip
from others’ tongues work
their bond, link by link,
from child to child,
to shape the men that swing
their picks and lift their
shovels high –
who hide the earth-born
spirit’s breath, young spring
that lingers still
rides free upon a young man’s feet
unbound to work before
the sheriff’s gun,
runs wild and swift
to greet
a breeze-swept face
one broken link
unlocks their tongues’ iron-grasp
and lets him reach
far out of the window
waving smile wide
in a silent show
one prisoner’s arched brow,
his light skip and jump
mock doffed cap
and bells rung
soundless in his sly
and wind-sprung mime
© christina heuer, 2014
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