Thursday, January 11, 2007

The One Holy with Boards

In the corner I keep a bucket

For hair, for ants to make

Monuments with, like outside

In the mud they made temples

To gods, ant gods wearing masks

Of my hair, ant men

As ant gods transformed

And little ant children watching

By the fire, scared and pretending

Not to be scared.

The rest is only boards

And a chair and me in a figure

Tossing hair, one lonely

Loose strand sticking

To the current of air that could be

My breath or it could be

The most holy spirit on high

Moving the consequences around

So that little ant children

Can come into the cavern perilous

And pick out a dress,

When they are older, to scare

The other children and at the same

Time their parents who

look both ways, one with

Eyes in the back of their back hands

Which can look up the phone number

For the rectory so the empty suits can come

And empty the air and patchwork

Up my boards.

My boards.

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