WEBVTT

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This is a real old
poem that I think

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I wrote about three years ago,
maybe even longer than that.

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But I still kind of like.

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It's called "My Grandfather's
Sins: Plainfield, Wisconsin."

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It was years before
they fell away, skulls

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of pickerel and northern
pike like reptiles he caught,

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nailed man high behind the
chicken coop on the big maple.

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The leaves fell off like hands.

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He went to Korea
with the Red Cross,

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sent me sandals, a wooden
carabao, came home and died.

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At night, elms dropped
branches on the roof.

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They said it was
his heart, but I

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know it was those clear tooth
heads blind and weathering up

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the tree.

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