Work

Ryan Teitman

Some mornings, the clouds

settle rooftop low,

holding us in place

like a specimen slide.

I spend my days

wondering how a hammer

weighs the hand

that holds it,

or how the starlings apron（围裙，停机坪）

the stoplights

at Alcatraz

and Adeline.

A glassworker told me once

that she could tell

by the scars

who bandages their fingers

and who kisses closed

the wounds. I don't

know how

my father woke

hours before sunrise

each morning and worked

until long past sunset.

Sleep was a country

to retire to, an Ecuador.

I live where the light is

thin, and clothes us

like linen（亚麻布）.

In the hills above town,

a black snake scrawls

across the path

like a signature.

I still have countries

left to discover, and ballets

of work

for my hands to learn.