When I go to borrow the electric hand-
saw, my uncertain neighbor alludes to
Hamlet’s friend Horatio
—something about sparrows
falling and his wife steps out
as the metal screen door flashes
white and it’s spring, I’ve just got my hair
cut by a fleet-fingered barber smelling of lavender
and everyone in Jersey is busy
cutting 2X4s in their garage,
a car’s spun out in the intersection
leaking radiator oil as green as hair gel
and drawing sirens as my profound wife
swoons beside me in a perfume of sawdust.