the lathed curls roll off, sinuous as beach names
wound up in a nautilus. I love the axe’s
deskwork prose, the four grades of night sky,

the thunder brought into sync with the cross-grain
gnarls. All night I work under lightning’s
rough-edged saw. I rub at the rings, polish each

stump to a peak of well-logged summers. All night
getting a rhythm, sealing time under resin,
my sweat mixing with the dust, the saw singing

as it hits a burl, sandpaper lending wood a choice
of stars. Though I’m sore from the sticking
blades, though my heart is like a buck, rubbing

antlers on bark, though my hands seek concert
with the dark, by morning’s first spill,
no stroke will be unrung, no tool-teased curl will

lie unswept, or be taken by wind; no wing-sown
whorl loom up to the levelling sun.
I love the silent gnarlings, the ingrained refusals;

designs hewn from skies hardened by a splintering
glaze; sighs knurled into curses, moon-edged
rehearsals; words curling off a lumberman’s tongue.

All night listening to the wood crack, to the saw
keen back. My heart coming hard again –
& again if the shrill stars of summer have sung.