Murray Eldon

It is winter smuggling the sky
past the jeans factory. I laugh
since I dream it like scissors
and bobbins and thread, knotted
into the horizon. My job’s gone
to the farm, I dig out a stump.


The wood feels like moldy denim
bundled in a dumpster. Moss
tries to sell its green against slush.
Joe-pye stalks are hiding turnips
and if I stand still, I see frozen mites
trying to thaw along the stems.


My mind is still jammed at the door:
even if plywood is nailed over
every window, I see my aunts
reaching across sewing machines,
sunlight caught like plastic beads
around their hands, thirty years gone.