Water Jar

[Truerenigma]

Not the moment when the old Dodge,
groaning up the access road,
falls silent in the clearing.

Not the moment when the black iron
wedges, lined up like teeth in the pink
cedar-flesh, take a bite.

Not the argument of hammers
burning off the fog with sparks,
not the fog, or the sparks,

or the voltage running up an arm
and down an arm, the arm
married to the eye, the eye to the

wedge, the wedge to the
cloven stump and turpentine
ascending with a shriek 

freed spirits rushing in the lungs
rushing in the lungs
rushing in the lungs, rush 

but the moment. When Felix.
Brushing a wisp. Of his gray
hair. Hands me. The water jar.

There's is a lot to like here. But what's with the squares?