Every nail has a home
in flesh or in wood.
They make beds or
they make beds,
and never have they ceased
to serve a dual purpose
in holding together or
the bleeding out.
But I sit in a lawn chair with a beer can
and a Geisha fan,
waiting for the day
when there is some sort
of clarity.
But we’re hazy here on the
mountain,
waiting for a purpose,
jealous of this sharp nail.
It will never fail
to find its home
like the rest of us fail to do.
And one day when
we are forced to stop looking,
it will nail us in for
good.
It will always outlast us
when
the six feet under becomes our
home.
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