L.R. Harvey Poetry

[Untitled] I’m almost from here, but not  quite. And what I mean by that  lives always one street over  from what I write. I used to lie awake in Cabin 12 and ache  to know just how it would be to be  the guy the girl I want wants,  how he must feel full and finished,   something like the meaty bite  of woodsmoke I still imagine poetry tastes like. The world is a window  we have seen through despite the fog of our breath,  called ourselves over to see for ourselves only to arrive—  always to arrive—on the tail end   of the fawn ducking the thicket, the porpoise pod going dark  to leave us gesturing in the general  direction of absence. It's not odd we wake in the night with foot cramps: Sinking,  toes forever flex for the firm of final things in the breath-taking  suck and swirl of                                ...

In the Tinkerer’s Shed  Most every tool has a home  here, this tin-roofed tangle suspended somewhere between upended and just order enough to suspect  that someone knows what’s what.  Levels hang crooked from a peg- - board; a box of loose wrenches tightens down one corner of a toothless table saw ; leaned on the wall   and looking down from the loft  a constellation of scraps bear weighty thoughts of all they might one day mean.  What’s thicker than dust here  is a sturdy faith in tilted things  and the unshakeable duty of being born with shims on our wrists. What’s missed, like the one nut ne eded to take this rust and rattle and cinch it all right,  is a clear and terminal task.