Balloons as a base

John Henry is under the ground
beating the heart of the hills
with his hammer.

The old beech tree
sings the wind’s name.
A word on the tongue
of the distant hills
drives home no vigor or sauce.

John Henry with his own bones
greater than hammer and granite,
John Henry, beats the iron rails
into the cliff face, singing.

The echoes,
John Henry, John Henry,
the pulse of the hills.

John Henry,
you are double sixes
shaking in a cup.

You, a great bell ringer
in the moonlit slope,
chime the mountain.

The sting is inside me.
Your hammer, John Henry, your name
drives me on.

Suck breath
with horse lungs,
John Henry.
Your grunts scar the air.

All the souls at rest
rise up.

Am I to believe
John Henry beats inside them too?

Because of you, John Henry,
I am singing into the darkness.
Symbols, symptoms nettle my skin.

The wind is blowing through the firs,
jostling the boughs awake.
John Henry, swing that
sledge at the spike.

Jump from sleep,
fix the sun.
This heap of chance wants motives.

The rock is a lie, John Henry.
The lie uncovers the truth.

The truth,
John Henry,
lies still.