ardware

You lean disconsolate on your stool,
Sullen and certain

As minor royalty rusticated to this
Unhelpful climate of solvents, gaskets, pliers, and bolts.

Because they are new and manifold and useful

You feel their whispers against you. The staunch
Resistance of objects. How can I tell you
O my soul,

To exhaust the realm of the possible when
Ever the light
Is uncongenial as February and your hand unlovely?

Like a dog nearly annihilated by nerves
And boredom chewing her paw to sore, red velvet,

You’ve torn your nails so far flesh swells
Closed around each bed like an eyeless socket.

That you should be making such small change!

Fingers inarticulate as moles nudge a debris
Of dimes not thick enough to hide

The candy-colored butterfly flaring
Across the tender, veined delta of your hand

Heralding indelibly the eviction
Of this vulgar flesh

Or the one word needled in black, knuckle-Gothic
R a p t u r e

Averill Curdy