The man enters with an axe. He is whispering
to himself or maybe talking to the axe,
as if it knows him, knows his nose,
knows his arm’s length and can see his
naked toes. He swings it into the heart
of the room at some invisible trunk
that once grew up to the sky, through
the roof before the roof was there, when the air
was bare-headed, unceilinged, before
the plaster rose bloomed. The blade
cuts through the space so easily that the axe
flies into the rug, splits its red wool trellis.
The handle beckons his hand. But he resists,
stands where a tree once stood, raises
his eyes, and then his hands, his bare arms,
and climbs his way back to the present.