Old paint bubbles loose
at the urging of intense heat;
a steady stroke with the scraper
reveals the cured wood beneath.

Here lies treasure;
the pungent departure
of paint patina unveils
old worked woodgrain
preserved since sure hands
planed, cut, fixed in place:
pleasing to the eye,
an art itself.

I become a part of this
old  craft long gone:
sweet wood, hand made.

The tiny corpse lay
at the side of the driveway
diminished by death
grey as all dead things are.

And reminded me
of the thoughtlessness
of friends, dying without care
for the rest of us.

I wanted to crush
this abomination
but we had not
been introduced.

Watching hi-res photos
slowly “resolve”
on the monitor
is like remembering,
going back in time:

first
your face is blurry
then I remember
exactly
how your lips
touched my cheek
like breath;
still so soft,
but the focus
is sharp enough
to cut me now.

Wolves tear me
and I howl into the wind.