The carpenter

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.

His body sloshes with drink, breathing like hospital. His body shakes like the beach trees in the night, that by the violence of their bodies appear to be taking leave of the mother earth.

He would, like them, appear to be tenuous on the earth, his knees shaking as he dealt with the bodies of trees.

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.


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