Coming always from below, blade wail & its pungency
*
laddering up toward my childhood room, my nostrils
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sick-sweet with it. Below he worked his grave machines,
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tintinnabulous their whirr & snarl.
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His face in sawdust spray: sweat beads
*
nacreous & a pollen lather, canary yellow.
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Resinous the wood where he’s entombed.
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Resinous the wood, who rises spectra
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this morning with the saber saws, churning the house
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they’re building down the street below my study,
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latticework beams. Sawdust visage flaring, ceremonial mask
*
lifted down from the ill-lit gallery
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& placed by him upon my face. Eye-slits for sight,
*
bright gash for speech, two raw nail holes for scent.
