Jared Carter Poetry

[Two Chairs]

Geodes

They are useless, there is nothing
to be done with them, no reason, only

the finding: letting myself down holding
to ironwood and the dry bristle of roots

into the creekbed, into clear water shelved
below the outcroppings, where crawdads spurt

through silt; clawing them out of clay, scrubbing
away the sand, setting them in a shaft of light

to dry.  Sweat clings in the cliff's downdraft.
I take each one up like a safecracker listening

for the lapse within, the moment crystal turns
on crystal.  It is all waiting there in darkness.

I want to know only that things gather themselves
with great patience, that they do this forever.
from Work, for the Night Is Coming [credits]
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