April 5, 2008
Then I worked apart
from mops and moonlight
on a labor of memory,
out of reach,
like the traditions of
fish
who live so far below the
sea's
surface they carry
lights.
While my finger followed
tasks of mundane time,
inner hands molded
sacred blood and bone;
a curve of skull,
a thumb, an elbow.
Then the deep door opened
and all that hidden work
came crying into the
light.
I looked into eyes from
inside
and when they looked
back,
all outsides melted away.