Jon Cone's work has appeared in numerous small-press journals and reviews.

The Iron Men The iron men rise. It is dark. It rains upon the hard earth. They go to their coffee. Their worn boots await them. The iron in their spines descends Into the ground like spilled oil. Let them leave their warm houses And walk like hollow thunder Along the steep cold road. In the distance dark light answers. The iron men go to the water Where the river masses against the shores. The trees rustle in the rain, timid, Intelligent as mice in their wise fear. The iron men lift shovels, then plant them Like teeth into the dark crust. They dig, unconcerned in the light rain. The tips of their shovels strike a nerve At the point where the river is born. At noon sirens pierce the day's drum. The iron men eat, they smoke. One caresses rotten teeth, another Feels the shifting cancer in his colon. Along the warp of their pulsing spines They stretch, unfolding like cut flowers. Near the low fire the iron men squat. In their black bellies embers glow. Then they rise to return to the place Where their blunt shovels lie wasted. Bird Dear Crow, you gruesome janitor, heckler, wild raincoat, sheet from the cancer ward, you old span of feathered oil, black stroke across blue sky - I wear my laborer's day cap because I fear you will pick at my head. Nevertheless, I salute you. The Rain You enjoy the rain and you aren't afraid to admit it, Yet some part of you resents the commonness of this pleasure: How many others there must be who share this pleasure, Like devalued currency. This afternoon it rained. You lay on the bed with windows open. There was a wind, how trivial in one sense, Since there is always a wind, But this wind brought a singular caress to your back, It approached without guile, And you felt its cooling finger Within the slouched mouth of your inert mask. It passed like a fever, It shook you in the moment and in that moment alone You gripped no more than your crab-like feet, No more than the dust locked in your claws. If you were a man of means, If you were a man whose life contested its making, Free to make strenuous demands upon what life assigns you, Then you would be someone out in the rain, Jubilant, muscular, hilarious, god-like, doomed. You would be doomed Because in the world of rain Nothing else matters except rain. Shadows The shadow of the mountain proclaimed The shadow of the full moon sloughed The shadow of the pig submerged The shadow of the cat lurked nearby The shadow of the hawk attacked The shadow of the open window curled The shadow of the single leg sculpted The shadow of the stone church wailed The shadow of the dying sycamore mined The shadow of the hand pump amused The shadow of your father's jaw threatened The shadow of your brother's head caressed The shadow of your sister's child worked upon The shadow of the raked leaves climbed inside The shadow of the wooden bucket greased The shadow of the doll's head abandoned The shadow of your son's hand comforted The shadow of your first kiss betrayed The shadow of the unlit candle ignited The shadow of the empty bottle intoned The shadow of the storm cloud beseeched The shadow of the new snow delivered The shadow of the bell tower engulfed The shadow of the ringing bell enchanted The shadow of the dry light released The shadow of the slaked host informed The shadow of the keening sod announced The shadow of dust protested The shadow of ashes swept up The shadow of the final breath At Skunk River Because the stakes are so high The saying this instant Is difficult. Because my mouth. It waits upon its own breath. Across the sinew where night hides. Whenever trespass begins. Because the saying itself, The saying. At stake is at stake.