at the Place des Vosges
spins out drum-rolls on a tin
can topped with aluminum
foil, so dexterously—
three pencils, one between each
finger of his
remaining hand—passersby
are momentarily distracted from
the unsheathed stump
which gestures (which would soon
repel, its raw,
rubbed weight like a face
whose features
have smudged away)—gestures,
nods, inclines politely toward
the pencil box
no one dares stoop to reach
into, scattering coins
like petals at the Sun King’s feet.
Sherod Santos
The river, while it runs the gamut of
All idle eyes gathered on the sand bar,
Whirlpools in around a snagged tree-limb
Trailing the red flag of the drowned girl’s
Blouse, though her body was hauled out
Hours ago. Just moments before that moment,
She’d wrestled with her brothers while
Her father spilled a dip net full of minnows
In a mayonnaise jar, and now the jar, the net,
The flattened reeds beside their fishing
Poles, remain as they could not help
But remain. And now, in an upstairs bed-
Room five farms down the road, the oldest
Brother sets his teeth into his thumb
And sees it just that way, the minnows
Still blindly bumping at the glass.