Left

Not everything that doesn’t get built
dies, not everything built lives.

Better with a wrench
than a hammer, she

would rather loosen
those four legs to collapse

old surfaces than tighten a grip
into an ache. This overreach

for words pounds down.

Day 197

I need you tonight,
moon, am collapsing in
the curve of you. I found

a wrench in the street this morning.
I need you tonight,
throwing tools

(I am afraid to use)
before me, am reaching to cradle
my own knees—

bruised by misjudgment.
These arms, these fingers are too
stiff. Right tighter, left

looser, bolts land
arranged in a pattern. I found
it could help

reckon through clouds,
stars aligning behind.