Nothing is plumb, level or square:
      the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
      any other piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
      dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By Christ
      I am no carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
      for myself, the floors
for myself, and got
      hung up in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
      at this house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey: rage.
      Oh I spat rage's nails
into the frame-up of my work:
      It held. It settled plumb.
level, solid, square and true
      for that one great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
      skewing as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This is hell,
      but I planned it I sawed it
I nailed it and I
      will live in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
      to the left-hand cross-piece but
I can't do everything myself.
      I need a hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.