Graphite

I’m mowing the yard
when the wind suddenly shifts
from the direction if U.S. Steel.
The sun catches the graphite flecks
and makes the world sparkle like it does
sometimes when you stand up too fast.
The place where my father works
darkens our lungs. The trees, the car,
the house, the street, the mower,
the hair on my body all shine
the same dull light. I brush up
against the door and leave behind a smear
like a line erased by the fat pencils
with which we learned to write.

:: Tim Skeen, Kentucky Swami (2001)