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Days: Construction Days when the work does not end. When the bath at home is like cleaning another tool of the owner’s. A tool which functions better with the dust gone from its pores. So that tomorrow the beads of sweat can break out again along trouser-legs and sleeves. And then bed. Night. The framing continues inside the head: hammers pound on through the resting brain. With each blow the nails sink in, inch by blasted inch. Now one bends, breaking the rhythm. Creaks as it’s tugged free. A new spike is pounded in. The ears ring with it. In the dark this is the room where construction is. Blow by blow, the studding goes up. The joists are levered into place. The hammers rise. The Poetry of Tom Wayman / 1 ...

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