Shirtless, he shaves at the upstairs sink,
dips the brush, stirs the cup. The rind
of shaving soap softens to a luscious
There is something familiar about the buck,
straining to ease himself under
the bottom strand of a barbed-wire fence,
Built to last, its vertical lines are plum.
The only ornamentation, a simple
crown moulding, the inward curve
of the cavetto.
He runs his hand over pine boards, propped against a sawhorse. Determined to build his own coffin …