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142 An engine again like a belly that won’t fill. The hunger after a day of hard work we’ve completed, unsatisfactory, finished— the requirements. What were we asked to do in the first place, what needed fixing or building? Over the mechanical rumble a pack of boys owns the sidewalk, their bodies announcing energy, fists and limbs coiled, recoiled, voices too high to be men. How hard the tallest kid smacks another in the shoulder, knocks him over, the cluster of bodies leaving him behind and then the doppler of their laughs, inexhaustible fierce speech disappearing white gym shoes scraping trying on the profane nonchalant and so intent to erase themselves as children, surface replacing surface he catches up rejoins. But now, back by the engine, in the front yard, the grass browns in the drought, spidery clusters of weeds and crab grass the only green. Some seed lands on the rock, in the good soil on the path the heart the heart the fallow heart the forgotten field but the mower cancels and evens the misshapen, shriveling lawn. Inerrancy David Wright 143 David Wright Neighbor you have watered the lushness behind your own fence. The look of you with a hand in your pocket. Neighbor your newspapers pile for a week, unread. Once the place overcomes intent asphalt and concrete bloom. The herb garden withers. A small rabbit stripped the bean plants to stems. The mottled lettuce makes one meal, only. Recall the longing that brought home these small cuttings and placed them here, the hand and the tool that mounded the seeds. Now on the days when it rains, dirt froths and grass becomes a sponge. Pull the withered basil. It stains fingertips with scent. Oregano’s sharp hearts— place them on the tongue. Swallow them dry. Small convert of the summer despite the steady, fickle sun. Prolonged liturgy of the hours public work, ergon, public engines of care. Oh, the hungry belly, the rain, the urge for the anger and surface of a boy’s sudden fist, power we would love without error, if we could be sure. ...

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