Seney

A sonnet for the Superior winter.

Ev’ry night this time o’ year, ‘round sunset,

them jack-pine seem t’swell up, grow taller.

Wood gets all dark, like the daylight were just

hidin’ the truth about it, like a damned veil.

That darkness, that’s all’s real out here, y'know? 

Loggers all know it.  Miners all know it.

Crew o’ the Fitzgerald damned well knew it.

Know it f****n’ forever now, don’t they?

 

Damned wind’ll turn a man’s mind on the gun,

see in the headlines now’n again!  Inkspots

remind you o’ blood, and soon ol’ Angie’s

naggin’ you t’ get your a*s into church.

Ol’ Roddy went ev’ry Sunday, I says,

look’t him, eh?  His dead’s as dead as ours.