CARPENTER

He cannot see the trees for wood: his brain
strips off their bark, saws planks from elm and beech,
observes, across a field, the tiger-grain
of oak, signalling tables, chairs, as each
waves to his axe, his mitre-board and plane.

That night he eats off forests - timberlands
spread through his house, leaf from his shelves and bed;
he combs his daughter's hair, he understands
the awkward knots, the dove-tailed plaits: her head
ash-fair, grows smooth beneath his working hands.


DON'T TAKE IT HOME WITH YOU

In films, after a shoot-out, someone chalks
an outline of the corpse flopped on the set,
the cadaver, failed actor, wounded, forks
his legs and forms a pin-man silhouette.

He knew it was a walk-on part but thought
he'd make his mark in other ways than this:
walk on, drop dead - no matter how he fought
Clint Eastwood always won and got the kiss.

"How was your day?" his wife asks.  He replies
"As usual.  That's life.  I can't complain."
Inside his hollow contour something dies,
bleeds a few minutes, then gets up again.

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