Eleven Lines

Gary Frazier

 

On my grandfather's farm
there was a hard water well
covered with boards curled
at their edges from the sun.
I wasn't to go near, but
the air came too cool between
the cracks and against my skin. 
On my belly in the warm dust,
I pushed pebbles and clods
over the brim counting 1, 2, 3,
slowly sounding the dark.