There was tearing in the floor-boards

and night would not

forgive the ex-communicants for

walking in on it.

It was a battered forgiveness

caught up in the ceiling

which was hard to catch

the fragments of,

the tatters in the beams.

And we were milking

honey-bees for fringes in

the working scheme of money-making

dental dreams,

to fix our tattered, grinded teeth.

I told them that we would be there at seven

to have the car waiting

and idling.

But we were delayed by the tearing.

The wood would

soon be stacked in batches

to sift through before we could leave the building

We’d have to take care of this messy milding.

We’d have to dig

to find forgiving.



copyright: C. Ward 2016


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