ROBERT FANNING
All day long, the line of sunlight
inches up the grass toward
the open door of the dead
man’s darkened shed,
where all the accumulated tools
of a lifetime still hang
from their crooked hooks.
At sunset, I stand
at the shed’s bright entrance
staring at the wall,
at the abandoned tools
shining as if lit from within.
A pile of rusted nails
sneers, cowering inside
the shadow thrown by my body.
In my hand now
the heavy hammer
burns and
glows.
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