construction on a door

I went downstairs to put the laundry in;
There was a hammering behind a door.
When I came back to take it out again
I glimpsed a ceiling fan, sawdust-strewn floor;
A crack of inner light spilled down the hall.
The sundered door leaned close on one-by-twos,
A frame, to build the door into a wall,
Raw yellow-gold wood neatly pierced with screws.
From elevator to washing machine,
The doors I pass, the rooms where I don't live--
Inside most of them I have never seen.
But I glimpsed into this one. Please, forgive,
Sweet resident, whose name I do not know:
My eyes beheld a place I may not go.

the feeling process

I am sick of this process of learning to feel
wherein "how can I help?" becomes "what can I steal?"
where the ties which are meant to bind lightly, to yoke
wrap their tendrils round mind and emotion, and choke
when the feeling is easy, analysis springs
like a coiled lidless serpent with stainless-steel wings
your intention's comprised of the following mess:
hope for comfort, confusion, and will to possess
yes, I know I can't see the inside of your brain
but with ten seconds' lead time I'll gladly explain
in a low impact-story just how it must feel
to be inside that vehicle, gripping the wheel
as you reel from momentum that skids through the turn
and the weight of your engine shifts under you--learn
to steer into it, darling, don't panic, don't fight
nimble, dance right across the oncoming headlights
forget all I can tell you if you can learn this
hold yourself centered, steady; keep moving--they miss
but you ache afterwards for the scrape of a crash
for the scream of the frame, for the flame and the ash
for the lines of pure force traced unseen through the air
to converge on an incident--accident--there
and to me you look like a drunk driver, spun slow
down a wide icy curve on a road you don't know
I've been lost there before, I've been stuck in that ditch
as you dig yourself deeper my cold fingers itch
to climb in through those windows, your eyes and your ears
to start stomping the pedals and shifting the gears
but you're there and I'm here and it just wouldn't work
I could name you your fear and I'd feel like a jerk
I could name you your dream and thereby make it less
just by touching it, something that's mine to express
so I tell you a story and pray you behold
shining, cupped in its structure, what cannot be told
and I ache with you, wait with you, patient as stone
when you wince away from it, you leave me alone
with the knowledge of just how to get you unstuck
while you blame friends and neighbors, God, Satan, bad luck
and you look at me, guileless, with unthinking trust
that makes my machine smile with cold rage and disgust
that now, now I've begun to be able to feel
the soft heart of a child, the precision of steel
welded, woven together, all rivets and bile
ratcheting up the back of my throat, and the vile
absolute certainty that from my mouth, my hands
all the truth could pour forth, and you would understand
but since it would be of absolutely no use
I breate on you--bleed on you--then let you go loose