Desideratum

I want so dearly to be a maker,

but what am I but a thief of words?
The knotted fingers and the

callused palms are the waysign

and the secret marks—the bearer

smiles, inclines the head.

Your splendid, shining bones,

and the way your eyes would

switch and gleam…

The going under of the other—

The condescension of the Son.

The tip of my tongue at

the edge of my teeth:

I want so dearly to be a maker.