Metes and Bounds

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.