Zeroes, eights and the lively wet

This is a revised version of the poem published here earlier. I like this version much better. If anyone wants to compare the two, here's the earlier version.

The porch in summer,

wind muttering low sounds,

Aspen leaves fussing attention,

scents and sights spilling

down slope and up,

mountain spruce bend sway bend.

Chisel in his right,

beer ready to the left,

a sharpening stone sits flatly

on blue-jeaned thigh.

Lightly oiled, the round stone

lies, waiting for the beveled edge.

In a big hour,

or a shorter two,

the sun will set,

true, as always.

Entranced, he’ll still be lightly

tracing eights and zeroes on stone,

chisel edge angled just so.

Sipping at the can to his left,

sliding thumb to tip,

contemplating sharp and sharper,

entranced.

Back to the beer.

Back to the stone.

Zeroes and eights,

rolling wave of oil

and grit pushed here,

there by the big hand

of this universe.

Zero, eight, sipping,

thumb test for sharp,

sharp, could be sharper to bite

the door jamb easy.

A cloud scuds blue sky.

He flatters singing birds

with compliments,

sips, watches, heeds the sentinel pines

bend crouch bend,

tests for sharp,

sun and face and trance,

zeroes and eights,

rhythm and rhythm

until the chisel’s tip,

covered with his peaceful

blood, calls him back
to its lively wet.

The thumb,

now parallel grooved, leaks blood.

Sharp. Enough.

Shuts his eyes,

low sounds and high,

catching up on what

the junipers have been saying

to the well flattered birds

and to him.

Zeroes, eights and the lively wet

I've revised this poem substantially. I think the new version is much better. It can be found here.

Gazing out from the porch,

wind and leaves making low sounds,

scents and sights spilling down slope and up,

mountain spruce casually swaying,

he sits, chisel in his right hand,

a beer ready to his left,

a sharpening stone sits flat

on his blue-jeaned thigh.

The round stone lies,

lightly oiled, awaits the chisel’s beveled edge.

In a big hour,

or a short two,

the sun will set,

if it stays true,

maybe while he’s still lightly

tracing eights and zeroes

on the oiled stone, the

chisel edge angled just so.

He presses a thumb to the tip,

could be sharper, sips his beer,

back to the stone,

zeroes and eights,

circling slow,

a rolling wave of oil and grit

pushed here, there by the big hand

ruling this tiny universe.

Zero here, eight there, sip here,

another thumb test for sharp,

sharp, could be sharper,

soon to bite the door jamb easy,

watches a cloud scud across blue sky,

flatters singing birds with compliments,

sips, watches, heeds the sentinel pines,

tests for sharp, sun on his face,

zeroes and eights,

fallen into a rhythm

that will not break,

until the tip of his chisel,

covered with his peaceful blood,

calls him back with its lively wet.

He examines the thumb,

with its parallel grooves,

leaking blood,

carved by his fine chisel.

Sharp enough, he thinks,

sips his beer, shuts his eyes,

listens, catching up on what

he may have missed.