I cannot lift granite for granite, six tries out of seven I chamfer and dwell in the incision. Glister and sheen, webs tenantless but for dew at this dumb hour. Identity bids faith clear its mud track.

Have we abandoned commerce. Forage and barter: call this town.

In the duchy of orchards no heat goes uncherished. Do we live like that. Do we make our way and should we. Yes, but more carefully.

I cannot lift and will not lower. My back is strong and does not deface but sprains better than any vivid acre. What is an aisle, an aisle is a space where doubt lingers, an aisle is resplendent, an aisle is my neighbor's estate. An aisle asks no more than its plaid self.

NAME THAT TUNE.

Sheets of tin stripped, my physical equation. I whistle. Slick my hair back. What is a tool, a tool is a focused introspection. Hammer meets hand in one quick morning.