Jul 7, 2009

If There’s Nothing You Need

Written by Adam Houle

Read by Christine Casson

Suppose I’ll go then to the hardware store
where they still hang steel buckets for bulk nails
I weigh and bag in a small paper sack.
Wander past chain links wound tight on wooden
spools. And rope displays. I test its rough threads,
the hewn braid snaps taut in my hands. Pulling
shroud-laid twine through a fist, I clench

a flame that burns from nothing. My raw palm.
I need the industry of things, flat heads
heavy in a breast pocket, their points cut
the bag, my chest, when I find you alone
watching the road, and force a long embrace.