Seek out the shadowed slits into which
the metal blade might fit.
Find the point of pressure
and steady yourself.
Exploit the hidden fault lines
in the plaster.
Brace your weight and push—
not strong, but cautious,
as if to pump brakes on glare ice.
Expose yet another row
of bare wooden slats.
Try not to breathe
until the dust settles.

Remember how we go about our lives
believing the ceiling, the walls, the frames
will hold
And as the pieces crack and plummet,
as the heavy horsehair plaster falls,
splits and drops like strange rain,
lands with a thud
you will hear in your dreams,
remember all those times the metaphor
arrived too perfect to name, too whole
to swallow, and wonder
if you can ever know you  love anything again
until you have split apart its seams.