he hammered down
on the nails deep

to the throw of a sqeak
thru woodens pine

blunts
a stain manic on the turn
of the machines steel and sweat

heathens a blow
to the mark of an eyes sap
weeping at the shredded corners
of a timbre some shroud

times counting
times coming
crows a shadow to his memory

thumbing its putty to the waters milk
fed to the velvet silk of her red rise