Lying-in-wait, ready for action like the poems behind it, is a battered blade of combat steel. Tarnished—open—it jutted up from the mire on the shortcut over a neighbor’s fence. Do you guard or forewarn those of us ignoring the no-trespassing sign along Connecticut saltmarsh, knowing tidal seacoast, like poets cannot be bound by law?

Open blade dinged,
clotted with dried mud,
I spied—my dog nosed—
you, while edging
past poison ivy and
possible trespasser
anger. Oiled, limber
rust-free, folded—
your nano-second
snap, rests in repose—
echoing poetry’s
Janus-faced gift:
to succor
and dissect.