The Carpenter

1    I look at my hands In a dark hour. They are my wife, Another life, Fawnal, Explicitly made. I compare responsibility To journey: They are pitch-black Whirling in the outside world Left behind like a native— Possessed. 2    We are older: Toil is our long way Back home. It works. Causes the space to beat Like a heart. It is a part of the poem That appears And appears on its own. It goes on On its own, Mystical as evil But, it is called freedom. 3    I’m sorry: I was telling you about my hands. How well we are married. It follows, I recognize all truth As some part of ten. Spirit is my thumb, Passionately. Without thumb I would be nothing. I have met some who believe in reason. They have had too much wine, Confess cause and effect— It has been painful. 4    I told you it is unreasonable: I guess I should say here, I am your carpenter. Ethnically, dark wood Is my life. I could show you my story better, Sanding, Then where I speak You would hear Africa Africa