Peace Sign

He hitched and balanced this quiet outcome 
of his carpentry. Finding traction on the roof, 
he waved the hammer, keeping the rhythm safe, 
and marked the Dutch facade with code against fatality. 
It was like a tree trunk with its roots in a circle 
or a missile on three legs safely contained. 
He said the trucks could see it from the interstate 
that growled at our foundation. Even at night 
they could—it was so blue-white and moon-wide. 

Would we live in a target? In our scratchy lot's 
blackberry patch I studied webs: fly-fouling bull's-eyes 
made tatted landings to rest a spider. They are so 
serene in their quaking, crocheted over and under. 
Snared prey—young protesters—marched down below: 
from our symbol we could see police wedge into students 
hit softly by the sun. Then, with binoculars, we flew 
down close to witness an officer pound 
a boy with the wooden emblem 
of his weakness: his skier's crutch. 

          If we were to look back years, 
we'd see the demolished frat house that we rented
peeling its turquoise bark. A dozen boxy flats replace it. 
In lieu of cliffside berries, insect servings by the thousands, 
shrews and opossums, wild currants, garter snakes, 
moth cobbler, sticky wedges of tablet lines, gossamer pie, 
a fractioned brick exterior enwraps tenant refugees. 
I didn't watch the wreckers but they should have fancied 
a peaceful family resided here. Well, revolutionary, 
we wrote and fought. We ran a station on the reading circuit. 
Poets stayed with us. Some now rest in peace. 
Our cut-out truce-moon is gone. I guess because we won. 
I see it anyway in our sky: a true peace sign shines unseen.