Poetry

The knife there on the shelf—

it reeked of meaning, like a crucifix.

It lived. How many years did I

beg it, implore it, not to break?

I knew each nick and scratch by heart,

the bluish blade, the broken tip,

the lines of wood-grain on the handle ...

Now it won’t look at me at all.

The living soul has dribbled away.

My eyes rest on it and pass on.