At the precipice of youth, I smiled-- 
and set the truck on fire in the farmyard. 
I let my flesh and sinews burn. 

Fit only for the skeletal city, the whip-strict 
anarchy of going through the motions, 
I wore a loose clothing of marble and fog. 

I peddled matchsticks and trick knees by day, 
and beneath one blue-gray and golden high-rise,
etched blessings in the boiler room nights. 

No one smiled. No one said: "Look, son, 
the world does not motivate all 
to speak." No one even looked up. 

But maybe bitter coffee is best with eyes bent down. 
I remember apples frozen red on the spiny twig, 
the frayed rope binding the barn door closed. 

In the twinkling of a neuron, 
the hailed-out crop comes back to life. 
The green corn ripens. And the tractor starts

on the second try.