John Kinsella

The great limb of the flooded gum
     torniqued by chain, a sluice
in gravel feeding into a drain,
     and down to the river.

They haven't killed for years,
     though the sap of all trees runs
bloody here - "It's a piece of our
     time, constraining

the rings of history. This is
     our garden where we fell,
where we rose again - a vestigial
     memory." The sheep bled,

and the bleeding spread, filling
     the sun on an evening
horizon. Alive with ants and flies
     the blade mocked the moon,

its frosts. A pet lamb that outgrew
     the children and broke away
from the coke bottle and rubber teat
     bled abundantly.

All atoms larger than they look.
     Red shift, emptied,
getting slower about the rippled
     wound, the chain

growing older, anatomically wise.
     Wedding. Te deum.
Swinging on a whim the chain
raddles the hands - here,
     where they killed.