My master builds a fire
Of wooden birds and crested waves
Of long hours spent in sawdust,
He makes puddles of heat and melted wax.
From my coarse words, he weaves a shroud
And places it upon his scar-split brow
To draw between himself and I
A quiet curtain that might keep the splinters at bay.
My student stabs at turning pages,
out of which he pulls the string of reason
Measuring the distance between the beholder and the beheld
that he will bridge once only I have gone to bed.
Like gentle Hades, counting seasons,
He pulls the chain from deep within the well
and I, standing upon the oily moss
Throw to him the bucket, that he might drink.
My hero sweeps the crumbs and glass from carpet stains
And pulls the leaves from the choking drain,
With patient hands that conjure shapes from lifeless things,
And lull the cursed and restless animals to sleep.
Am I foolish to believe
In planets perched upon the edge of night, just so
That this, the person I have found from all the rest
Is all that stars and planets promise, and one more
From far beyond the fragile, rigid reason of man
That coldly whispers to the bones of my puppet
This one was cast of dust for you.
