Mr. Nail

sets in
casts a net

with hooks,
each tied-knot

weave together
pierce the sea

of reality—
and blood
spurts upwards
into the faces of

which watch
from the
heights as
down-pouring trees

collect within
their open skulls,
their brains

touched by
the fingers of
un-made mouse traps,
un-made furniture

an un-made
bench nestles up
beneath my armpit
and recites what it did today,

boring old
stories and their familiar
melodies, it

keeps their
doors happy, and their
mad, tucked away

beneath beds
of un-made
realities, responsibility
a neglected
comma before
language could take—

placeless, his
mangled body
talks like a battery
full of anticipating use

but always

slams into
own shattered

necessity, we
walk the hammer



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