He says Termites. Scrutinising

their Braille, he finds a tinyness too obscure for such stubborn

thumbs. He says The wood’s too bitter, compensating

with his literacy in timber. 
		*
I think, the termite’s entire body

is devoted to language. Following a scent’s stain,

a pilgrimage to sucrose wood. 
		*
We talk about the tragedy of knowing.

He says Look at this bit, steel-toe circling

a section of raspy

decay. He says They had no clue, sniffles

at the arrogance of the past.
Alone, I study sections of floor-board

for nescient letters, tracings

in dusty termite-shit, scraping clots out

from under my ruby-red fingernails.
		*
He pulls back more stucco.

He says They’re gone. He says Bet you they’ve got designs

on that oak out front. 
In dreams, my elbows scar with blisters

where a termite has broken out

through the skin.   I spit creamy fistfuls of them,   feel

a scrotal tingling, that

		      their empire needs the sex of my bones.
Waking, I hear a phone-call in the hall, his voice gone stiff

on certain words: sander. Girls. Concerns. 
		*
Yesterday, I bit paint off my nails. I coughed

at the ceiling. Today, I scratch three lines about water, or

the dank retch of rot, and then 
such human noise is muted; everything

is muted by the bitter taste of wood.