invocations
of the past, irrevocable
as a groan is irretrievable
yet always feeding forward
to your arm
. . . your aching arm
sweating,
bringing down again
and again the machete
on blocking foliage.
The work, on and on,
always there like sweat
streaking your arm
your mind half in there
on the other side, half
on the point where all this
feeds forward to
the machete of remembering,
regretting, re-examining,
recalling and repeating
it all up into your arm
that swings down with an edge
of rejoicing.