Pick up a sledge hammer blade
mounted on a duct-taped handle.
Grip the stick like a ball bat
with fissures in the wood from work-wear
parting it. Drive this heft overhead
and down, overhead and
down from shaky shoulders
into something thick and stone,
entrenched lime boulders caught
in the way of clearing, an obstruction
from building something
more useful, more appealing.
Make splintering shards
from the gravid blade. Each stubborn fist of stone
shatter, wallop them down into tangled grass
so green all is lost in fecundity.
Drop to hands and knees,
the splash of sweat still reddening your face
in panic. Attempt to gather together
each distressed fragment,
to cultivate smooth ground for construction—
such task makes failure, less-than-pebble.