To Hammer

Measure first,

2 ft, 4, ft, 6 ft,

Marking the spots with a peculiarity, the flat carpenter’s pencil.

Swift strokes on rough wood, with or against its grain.

That feels good:

In the business of precision you can be quick, almost casual, for once.

Still you know the exact spot the nail enters

Which your hammer will bless with its blunt truth:

The part that takes the shock is named the head.

You hit and get hit again and again

With/on/for the head.

 

As the nail enters it feels good,

Penetrating block, beam, joint.

Hit it hard enough, over and over,

And it lasts,

Builds a solid structure

Around hollow sound:

Bang bang, echoing sawdust

On the cement, in the breath,  

Hammering an ode

To your hand,

Extension of your head,

And to you, nail that you are.

 

The hammer itself is nothing,

Mimics your hand

Mimicking the lie of time:

What is built well will last.

Nothing lasts.

Truth is a wavering line

On an uneven surface,

Casual, sketched over splinters,

Or the too-quick blow that forces

You to look and remeasure

Where, damn, you placed the nail wrong.

 

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