Wrist Deep

After resolving myself against a weak hope knowing
the drill bits had gone to that inexorable place
for lost familiar things—farther than noon is from dream—
I set to building the bed by hand, fastening each hard screw,
each fumbling bolt, not looking once at the written instructions
as is customary to men. And so the bed took on its semblance,
though not as I’d imagined; yoked down the center,
strutted by ribs blackened by age and human oil steeped,
it resembled more a body (smelling human) or a ship
keeling tumult after tumult in which I could lie calm
each evening confounded by joy tinged nightmare,
traveling the insurmountable dark distance
taking its blistered hold between stars and me,
pressing to the cool wet beams my tender palms.