Copyright Jonathan Marcus

fresh cut earth tousled as afterbirth
the raw mud thick and gooey with tire clods
acrid-sweetsharp-lime aroma of new concrete footings

the blonde 2x4 sticks called studs pop up
glint and glow in dappled light
vertical, reaching, they steal a cube of sky

to be a woman’s home in six months
but now it’s a man’s sketchy quick glory
in these finest moments before finishes, furnishings and family

these finest moments poised in glory, passing in glory
between idea and full form, these sticks in the sun
whack whirrrr curse slap Bang! Bang! Bang! with secret precision

minute cubes hew from the infinity of space
you can see them all at once,
all the separate rooms sketched in blonde strokes:
the rooms, the day and night, the sky and neighborhood -- all at once

platinum low in the afternoon lights the long boards
in rakish sunlight the shadows stretch out like a siesta
they ripple down the steps and criss-cross each other
a cross hatch grid of shadows imitates the triangulation
of walls supporting walls and joists to bear flexing wind loading rafters
 

                              and finally the shadows
                              collapse like a heap
                              of sawdust in the basement

                                                ***
 

not so long ago the lumber lay as earth from which it now soars
the years’ striations wobble on the sun dashed planks,
whorl like hot caramel
these traces ebb and eddy round edges of lumber which will stand tall
for a century or two before laying down again
but never again so rich with golden possibility as

now: these airy rooms whistling with bright idea breezes, and pine.


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