The dog has shrunk between the brake and clutch.
His shaking shakes a two-ton truck. From a God

so furious, he cannot hide his hide. Outside,
in the world at large, black hours are being

pearled and shafted. A tree stands out
spectacularly branched; the mind’s eye

grows alert. This thing can hurt.
It had us once, it’s having volts

of big idea again—about
thirteen a minute. Do we need

to know more? Are we sure?
Just wait—a brain this insecure

may need another bolt be driven in it.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Heather McHugh's poem With Due Respect To Thor

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