Breadcrumb #209
CLAUDINE NASH
Somewhere
we are
carpenters.
We pass
the morning
counting
footsteps,
calculating
cuts of pine
and oak,
beams
of knotted
barn wood
salvaged
from another
life.
Our tallies
drift upwards
as an echoing
mantra.
You lift
your eyes
and a home
bursts
from your
lips,
I whisper
a city
though
a room
of glassless
windows.