Two Poems

Self-Portrait with Hammer

In the beginning, I struck my own finger with the hammer, watched it
happen in gauzy lowlight, watched the waffle grid divot into the flesh
between knuckles, saw the rust spring, a slit of red snaking from the hidden—


In the beginning, I kept working, felt the useless swell within me while I made do
with the lesser counterparts. I was writing my own name in the encyclopedia of
    work.
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