the blood moves,
your nose
runs,
the sun
the only
audience.
thwack. the maul
comes down, bit-
ing the wood
the way the word
grabs, cuts the page.
pop. more blood comes
in
and the salt
eats your lips…
you won’t have to
crack your neck
for a week.
thwa—the wood grabs
tighter.
the whole mass
comes up,
both hands busy—
slam! the wood
still holds.
and thwack, down again,
the fuel for the fire
falls away,
head first.
