Nothing is plumb, level, or square:



the studs are bowed, the joists



are shaky by nature, no piece fits



any other piece without a gap



or pinch, and bent nails



dance all over the surfacing



like maggots. By Christ



I am no carpenter. I built



the roof for myself, the walls



for myself, the floors



for myself, and got



hung up in it myself. I



danced with a purple thumb



at this house-warming, drunk



with my prime whiskey: rage.



Oh I spat rage’s nails



into the frame-up of my work:



it held. It settled plumb,



level, solid, square and true



for that great moment. Then



it screamed and went on through,



skewing as wrong the other way.



God damned it. This is hell,



but I planned it. I sawed it,



I nailed it, and I



will live in it until it kills me.



I can nail my left palm



to the left-hand crosspiece but



I can’t do everything myself.



I need a hand to nail the right,



a help, a love, a you, a wife.





