Coming always from below, blade wail & its pungency

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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

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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

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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.