by Joshua Converse05 Jul 2013
The Carpenter’s hands are rough,
from labor in the workday week,
shaving and papering,
smoothing and roughing hard edges,
cutting right angles in
clouds of sawdust.
His hands tell his trade.
Where are the poet’s calluses?
Is the stony knob on top of his soul
dimpled and reddened from where he daily bumps it
against words like walls?
Is the grainy pink partition of his heart’s third chamber
smoothed like marble by frequent passage of the Truth?
Is the poet’s brain gnarled like rheumatic hands
that have grappled with Death
and the cloying breaths of dead poets?