In the junkyard west of town a corrugated metal fence
pulled away and falling.  Inside, more metal
twisted in piles, puzzled together like bent letters
shaped in a foreign language.  Metal upon metal
and the steady beep of trucks backing along the outer road. 
Mufflers and axles a tangle of potential for reuse or reshape. 
Picture a blade, a trowel, a shovel.  Think of blacksmiths
in log buildings shaping cauldrons and spoons. 
Consider nails and staples.  Fathom stents of mesh
holding open the narrows leading to a heart. 
I watched from afar as my stepdad in a welder’s mask
forged something I didn’t try to understand. 
The point being blue-yellow sparks crackling
about his shoulders.  He could have been
repairing a handle.  A latch, cage, or key. 
He was mending earth’s hard blood, its nature stable
under cooled conditions.  On my shelf an old canteen
retains what looks to be the dents of war –
waits to be hammered smooth.