Mark Jackley

When a Truck Smashed into my Car like the Fist of God

God knows why,
I wasn’t hurt,
but I was blown out
of my shoes, so
I hobbled home
in my stocking feet
like a holy fool who
wanders the Moroccan sands
or Tibetan slopes,
feeling every pebble,
each step on the earth.

Middle Age

This line on my face is a river.
A villager stoops, hauls water.
His shoulders burn. If he’s lucky,
he will carry it a long way.

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