Issue 118, Spring 1991
The balding man behind the laminated counter has pasted parallel
hairs in place as if tacked down with tiny nails, and
around me in Harris Lumber men are ordering lengths and widths,
not doubting what’s called for to build an addition,
knowing the specifics and just where a bolt will
seize the particle board and positively hold it.
Needled by the notion that a poet should know reality
or at least be on touching terms with it, stiffly shy I
roam the hardware, patting power tools with blind fingers,
making my eyes admit carpet shampoo duct tape & 3-prong cables when
all I want is bookshelves! To hold the shapes of something fluid,
noble, not measured, unbolted, true and strange as my secret me.