Liberation arrived in silver,
The precise squiggle that runs down your spine
Flows like a river which I can tilt
This way or that to blink in the Sun.
Put parallel to the horizon,
Your serrations match the jags of the hills,
And the circle in which you culminate
Could heat the Earth. You are wasted in my
Pocket, you which can turn a seven foot
Monolith into something that swings
Open on its three singing hinges.
Sing now, metal teardrop, that first creak of home.
Featured Image: Pixabay