In my house, men tear out the floor:
hammering, then wood splits-
hour on hour.Â You almost need
safety glasses for this work, the blond says
and truly, as I go for the phone,
the kitchen is now rubble.Â Delight
a paste bubble in my throat.Â If anger is tangible
here it is, a danger to these men
who let fly plaster, the smell of something old
letting go.Â They unmake what I made
with my life, or where I made it.
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