Little Mjölnir

A hammer I found
On a tall mound of earth,

Only man-made,
So little like Thor’s.

I swung it at mountains
Of old washing up,

I heaved through the trees
Of ancestors lost.

The townspeople laughed
As I toiled and I huffed,

Its handle unvarnished,
Its corners were scuffed.

Look at him missing,
They sang and they coughed,

But they couldn’t see
The meaning of moths,

Shattered my ego,
Departing the docks.

The Place Of Mistakes

Here, the God of Hammers reigns,
Long live the God of Hammers!
Swinging clubs, set me in place,
Secured in Plasters of Paris.

I looked into that pit of Hell
Where he tossed his mallets;
There I lost my sense of smell
And all the sensate palettes.

From my perch the lightning
Bruised throughout his business;
I hear that loathsome striking still
Within a loamy distance.

He pushed me through the hole
Of souls, in to new abysses;
In this way, I claimed coal,
Feeding the fire of kisses.