Zero words
befall my smithy.
The anvil cold
of batter;
rivet hammered,
slammed
the dead
of steel.
Stolen saw
cutoff magnetic.
The spool
coiled
and curled.
Nails screwed
for impact,
the driver
God's own
impulse.
The mallet
hit
my index finger.
Plumb the iron
like linen smoothed.
The nut
a drunkard
of thread.
A bold
adjustment
of trust
the aught
provides.
The hotfoot
crisp,
my fingers
scried
the platinum,
polished
sacrilege.
The russet
of a bronze cast.
Sand blackened
of vein
cherry red.
The burn
of coal,
primordial
incense
from the
carbon age.
My footprint
large,
beyond
the stream
of lives.
The mould
of mold
I lived.
© Sprague Thomson 2021
