Carpenter, make a door into my life:

make me a tunnel more ample than the width
of the one I’ve wormed through with nothing

more than my shoulders scraping against
sediment and shale. Make me a flying
buttress so the roof of the earth

holds up and my breaths
ricochet past their fear
of the unseen—

Make me a trowel light
enough for my hand: down here
nights are velvet or animal

fur, flecked with metal
or dormant fire. And if
I touched the flint

of its pewter
to the gallery’s edge,
I might find the chink

in stone, the spring
hidden in plain sight;
I might find the lever

and the toothed guardian
asleep on the landing, the gate
beyond open to the garden

where the moon hangs like a lost-
and-found earring, a sickle,
an ornament, a pear—


In response to Via Negativa: Commission.

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