Rotten fence

I stand in my garden
Hammer raised
Every strike
Rains dry, rotten wood
Dust and mould
And fat black spiders
That stumble groggily
From the next blow.

The sun beats, in turn,
On my back
My neck slowly reddens
Like an apple ripening
To blisters.
The birds watch
As I dance in the garden
In my space
Shattering wood
Like silence.

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