Suppose I’ll go then to the hardware store
where they still hang steel buckets for bulk nails
I weigh and bag in a small paper sack.
Wander past chain links wound tight on wooden
spools. And rope displays. I test its rough threads,
the hewn braid snaps taut in my hands. Pulling
shroud-laid twine through a fist, I clench

a flame that burns from nothing. My raw palm.
I need the industry of things, flat heads
heavy in a breast pocket, their points cut
the bag, my chest, when I find you alone
watching the road, and force a long embrace.