Work and Ironworks

Stutter over familiar formations,
cast like New Orleans balconies,
stifled by heat and dust and the hammers
I wield as I gut it; the space is molded-
over, the drywall brittle. There is a sense
of digging, of excavation, though
so much will be thrown out. Books
and trophies, unidentifiable wads
of paper free (in an odd,
unsettling fashion) from attachment,
from feeling and comfort.