Frost had it right, I suppose. Walls divide.

But something there is that needs to build one.

Maybe it’s the feel of swung steel slice-

gouging and pitching stubborn sod and soil

until a trench—two feet deep—is formed then

fed hard helpings of quarter-inch crushed stone,

on which float to be sunk sluggish base rocks

shuvslud, barred, and pinched into position;


the field stones gagged from the earth by plow blades

are glove-handled, turned, faced, then slid to fit

athwart a seam; chinked to steady, stared at

until another slab is picked and placed

upon this geometric monument

to our deep Ozymandian desire

to swallow wind, drink rain, and freeze the sun.

Also by this author

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Published in the 2010-10-08 issue: View Contents
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