At the end, I kept the nails long / for you. Now, perhaps, because of your leaving, / they linger and lean over the tips of fingers.

The axe, lit from the back / as it crashes through the glass // protecting half / a pixelated heart

She’ll say it is a guillotine, hotel / room maid, first one inside this suite to scream.

The clouds turn red, then sickly yellow, then red again. It’s only a matter of time before the burning flowers start falling from the sky.

A court-ordered Manhattan left stranded in the aisle. / She dialed wrong and spawned God.

It’s complicated, what I feel toward the building trades. A deep allegiance and solidarity with other workers of all trades.