I

Under the sign of the broken wheel
the village smithy stands. The anvil that falls
from the billowing sky is falling now
and when it hits it buckles the earth, it rips
into village green, plunges crossroad and mill,
sucks the air and the scenery down
and widens the hole. It buries the elders, the women
and children, the need to keep or desire for more.
Wherever the smithy stands is without, the old world
gone from under him like a yanked tablecloth,
suddenly sole and deprived of his living, his eyes
wide, with a face that barely registers the change,
standing alone with hammer and tongs and a
lead apron, wholly himself and bestride his loss,
but upon his strength, to his purpose
bent, obeying the adage of his occupation, throwing
the hammer into the dark, down where the work is,
where everything looks like a nail.

II

Under the sign of the broken wheel
the village smithy stands. The anvil that falls
is a speck in the noonday sun, and what he believes
would never happen will happen in time, only
much more slowly than sunlight falls, and where it falls
it pleasures the earth, it dapples the village green,
paints crossroad and mill, whisks the air into scenery
and hides the art, the light unseen
where it dawdles all day, where it charms the women
and children, whose hearts never dream or desire for more.
Wherever the smithy stands is his work, the whole world
banded around him, bound by the oath he swore,
by all accounting free and clear, to spend a moment
with what he’s made, with a face that betrays
his confidence to the metal, forged in himself
and upon his strength, to his purpose
bent, landing the fatal blows, lifting the hammer
against that part of the sky.


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