The hammering continues, even when it begins to rain, but I keep the windows closed because for my mind it is a kinder gesture to subtract.
Most likely it is a brown shaded shirtless man fixing a sewing cabinet, probably cropping the ends with a small hatchet, next to potted plants with weeds at their feet spilling out like leprechaun gold, and the shelf when fixed will need to be polished immediately at which point the knocking noise will stop and the sunlight will continue to see, bearing down upon the daylit ground with it’s hands which are also it’s eyes the milk of the world, and I with the window closed will hear nothing and continue to see and know nothing.
But I keep the jalousies closed, the crinkled glass louvers filtering the light into muted yellow greens and tired shades of middle school daydreaming. It is enough to know that somewhere close-by a man is working, having made and still releasing slender bald sounds of purpose above the gently swerving Thursday. Have you flown through the deep with the blue lung and touched the fang of the beast that lives at the floor of the Bering and lived? Have you stayed hands under your beating skull when Adrienne pauses beneath the doorframe- uncoiling her fingers to slip out two turquoise earrings? Do you know why her hair in the wind reminds you of fire and of water in one moment? I am too removed to estimate the cost of a never changing function-
the dog barks across the slim river, and under few circumstances can it not touch my consciousness, under less can I understand it completely, yet it moves my being. The winds of a certain writtenness name me a sailor, even while I sleep or sit dumb in a well sunned room with no repeatable thoughts. At this and the word that the stars can be read, I will burn my roof to read them.