Whenever I think that nothing much ever comes
Of the long dark hours of my work and the slums
Of my fallen and morbid and dishonest race
For Christ’s dear landlordship are none the less,
When I think my mysterious hand was only meant
To furnish a rotting and leaning tenement,
When I feel how the ignorant matter that I fool
With insists on its freedom from the intelligence of my tool
And would lie about all day on an unmade shelf
With no wish to make anything of itself,
I remember the subtle timbers standing in Eden’s grass
Before they were felled to this low woodenness,
And I cry for some resurrection back to grace
And am given, for a second opinion, your young face:
Your expensive eyes, the sweet grain of your skin,
The long precision of your hair’s gold spin,
And all those detailed lineaments that praise
How time with the little thin papers of its days,
Patient with its own dark and lumbering distress,
Has sanded you down to this fine loveliness.

–May 27, 1989

(“Carpenter” appeared in Volume 19 of The Connecticut River Review, Stratford CT.) 

Published on October 28, 2006 at 3:57 pm  Leave a Comment  

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