The Grade of the Grain

They used to sell diamonds behind this window.

Now it’s just the raw, yellow meat of a tree

nailed over the glass. It’s been here so long

the rain has raised the grain into a topography

of old knots and cheap glue. I reached out

to touch a staple, rusted and bent like a knee

against a dark swirl in the wood that looked

exactly like an eye watching the street.

A sliver found the soft part of my thumb—

a sharp, dry reminder that the temporary

has a way of becoming the skin of the building.

We’re all just boarding up the holes, aren't we?