ακμων (anvil)

accusative, of course—direct object
threnody, in the Greek, meek-sounding
loss; smallest piece of the mind’s deep blue
sound here, fettered away in a forge—
I admit my fear of this inevitable loss,
antiphon song, over and over, refrain’s
control—I mourn the incus, anvil in
cudere, beat or strike, which seems right
in the soupy spring of day—nothing
left like a sparkling bit of flecked lead
some new knotty soot, interrupting the
sea just planted, years away from taking root

of sound’s transitive verb—it’s a dirge,
wail song, or whale song, or some imperfect
soft cleft my grandfather heard nothing of—
he would point to his ear; shake his head—
gloss over the long nights of tinnitus
being unable to regain
the vulgar tongue but actually
there’s so much I’m struck by: simple plans
left in the ear’s spin or dot’s spot lot
dust I’m afraid of—dust like some cusp, 
green carpet suburban summer—tree, yes,
but so impossible to take back now