Go, I said, my mouth full of wormwood, when the lies
like larvae crawled out of your wood-work,
that rude wooden city you stabled us in,
woodlice and mildew, its gates monumentally
breached by that old wooden horse-full
constructed from wood I never could see for trees.
Go, I said, to your wooden face,
in a wooden voice, saw-blade tongue spitting chips:
I will lop you like deadwood, split you
down to heartwood, stack you up
for cord-wood and burn you like bridges,
like the banged-up wooden idol of a newly ousted god.
Go, I said, the word itself a pinewood door
colliding with its wooden frame--
and you woodenly went, soundless but for shoe-soles
knock-knock-knocking on wood.