Chilled thigh under homespun,
 
the weaver’s aching back

and yellowed finger pads,

quotidian aches bow to the sovereignty

of metes and bounds.

The length of cotton

stretched between brass tacks

weaves its own 
ledger-worthy autonomy.

Proceed from the blazed line

twenty chains to the southwest.

Dull needle through burlap.

Chilled holler of the axe’s

subtle swipe

through a scrimshaw of frost.

Under moss, an oak trunk is blazed 
breast high and skin smooth

to mark the end place.

Laura Da' is our Poet in Residence for November. This poem was originally published in Da's book Instruments of the True Measure, 2018, University of Arizona Press.


Previously: Refusal of the Return, and Centaur Culture.