From the shed the air is thick

From the shed, the air is thick

with damp earth, cold steel.

A wrench, its hex-mouth quick

to chew on rust, reveal

its pitted skin.

My fingers closed.

The red dust, fine and thin,

on every joint imposed.

It flaked away, a bitter coat.

Once smooth, now rough,

like something someone wrote

then crumpled, just enough

to make the message blurred,

but not quite gone.