| Where a tailor made a seam |
Where a tailor made a seam
I
A thousand years of you might be easy
and a great work, but by then we would see
with God's eyes, hair, skin, teeth run along a
line, stuck with lint, no more conjure sap
past the stitch to my head, wave me on,
my spice empire may not always rise on
your breath and my only crown my body
templed with your hands, two last thin priests
crying warmth over a cold black pearl in
a bed of sleep without space enough or time;
my wish no body of heat but by some
other priest his book more space and wish,
where the soul becomes a point and works itself.
II
But lighter brides who take this church clasp these
hands, sweet and foul so nearly placed, both an
hour priestly blind - toss time with stones - till one,
the gates, valves, sluices, stand up dry, exposed,
stuck in its rant, send out code from my bone,
hammer and anvil, though there is no space,
no peace, no mercy, this faith is still good;
crown my finger with your taste, make it run
where a tailor made a seam. Then if you
carry war to the China Sea I can still hold
your guns, keep the wheel in your terrible
ship, take all your good with all your sin,
Where love becomes a point and proves itself.
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