Virus 6
He stands on the ladder, is painting
the house. Does not fall. Hand following eye which is fixed on
the house that bears him. The wood rots, he scrapes fibres off,
kills mould, fills holes in, levels; he’s painting, he nurses
the house. Should it sag, he’ll shore it from top to toe, should it leak
will plug each wound with skin and hair. Let storm, let tremor fear peril
falling come our way, he’ll stand there on the ladder, hold
the sky up sand light smooth tape off time and whistle through his teeth be-
hold I make all things new chip by strut forever and ever, he’ll
stand, look through the window, raise a hand, laugh. He is
painting the house.
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