Let's say

the news coming out of your two by four is of a piece with the raunchy silhouette of a laddish gal from out back yonder, her hair done up in the latest tulips, her lips like a long song you're stuck searching out the words for, words you'd be able to find if you weren't so dog burned crazy with the truckle, if this & that weren't rubbing up in a misty manger, inn lights dancing on the lambs. And let's say you had a map to the nether regions of the lumber yard, where warm sawdust yet tumbles in close sheds, and the blades' fresh oil is sweet enough to slip into like a lip balm, tongue battering the teeth to get them to move, and a tremulous fly opens the way to another corner, his buzz the only noise drying.