shouldered weight brings a stoop to the gait & a strength to the least of breath.  the way flesh looks in black & white, stretched upwards on rumpled sheets, the way it flashes in recorded light , forgotten shadow.  women’s work & men’s to sorrow, little hands to mend & give away tomorrow.  i would like to talk with the giants from my childhood, towering there still.  i could call to them as friends might, but i’m afraid they would not recognize my shrinking voice, looking instead to the swallows, dipping their forked tails from swaying, empty telephone wires, one, by one, by one.