I did not hire the day laborer inside whose bones I ride.
Here is motion, here is time, here is the spinning world.
Here is the trowel, mortar, and metronome hand industrious.
Here is the moon, the hidden language, the valuable burl.
Here is my compulsion to sing, and my throat empty as a new vase.
Here is the afflicted tree holding one jewel and a thousand birds.
Merged, the swordsman and the healer, missionary from God.
Ice and ivy grown on my tongue break the bricks with words.
I am a scorched bird born of lightning, hatched from geode silence.
I am more beautiful than any river. I am cloaked in thorns and tar.
One day, laborer and wall will dissolve intestate
and I will rise, concubine of the quarter moon, magna voce avatar.