I like them because they come from a dead star;
Because they are purposeful matter,
Mindless at the same moment;
The hands of mad men;
The hands of stained glass makers…
The electrolysis of summer air
Is in their wings and pinched waists.
The labor of anger and of forgetting
Is in their cut eyes.
They float among stacked pine boards
Until they appear tireless:
Gravity cannot stop them, the hours
Will pass them over.
They lift slowly in the shadows,
Move through the woodpile without god.