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