The proud carpenter quickly vanishes like the turpentine he uses on the wood surfaces .His words sound hollow like the half-made skeletons of cupboards he has left incomplete on the stair-case ,gaping at the morning sun day after day. The sun enters their domes as though they are cavities waiting to be filled with matter.
The carpenter’s spiritualism
The carpenter wants keenly to realize beauty
From his bearded face wearing drops of liquor
On the corners of lips, with a buddy on bench,
Sunday not surely being a holiday from beauty.
Wood is butter, to the knife and the hacksaw.
But liquor is quicker, on the body, behold and lo.
Beauty is not always dead wood imitating life.
Beauty lies in a shack, a thatch and on a bench
Frothing in brown at the top, to the flies buzzing
Around eyes ,the world having lost its outline.
The earth and the sky become a single mass.