High as the far is red,
high high in the far red,
and high in the red—
Morning trembles up the tunnel of treed sky.
A man trundles in from the turning
weather. Slowly ticking,
the barometer's guage-stick
a wisp of rust
always points to changing.
Always there is
something in the air like sea
and something just like air.
The lucky man with a thumb bleeding for sixteen years.
No iron to build the fence between skin and skin.
He is always on the mend.
If no opening, then no healing.