For Nine Days Does the Anvil Fall: Six

Where room is made for a new
kind of truth, here near blind blows
hammer to panel closes
in on loose ends now fused, laid

down are locked doors to opened
wounds, occulted pores no due
can ever again afford
to pass over toll unpaid,

so in this place there waits proof
that some day demolition
can betray what tonight you
try to deny behind hits,

          that as it falls your fist moves
          from broken jaw through split lips


an unspoken message too
expressive to repress, this
history hidden as if
walling up our unwell days

pasted over pain with fresh
paper unaddressed issues
inevitably surface
to stain, evidence always

present so pasts continue
in ways our future never
could have, no use wasting youth
on memories, for poets

          know their ends beforehand, use
          metaphors to mend houses.