James Matthew Wilson
The hooper dares Compare his work
To God’s. Who else
Could circumscribe
The pouring waters
So that they dwell
In rounded walls?
But, no, objects
The smith, the world
Comes out on tongs
From some deep flame,
And cools to iron,
That darkened being
As which it falls.
Just so, the postman
Insists all things
Are brown-wrapped parcels,
Never expected,
Demanded never,
But present here
Upon your stoop.
God set the type,
Avows the printer.
The advocate
Finds all is law.
More like we’re hens,
The farmer yawns,
In one great coop.
The bookie, doubtful,
Sees only luck,
The doctor, life
One long disease
And without cure.
If they are partial,
They are not wrong,
In their divining
Within this mystery
A familiar face,
Far from us, yes,
And yet to whom
We know already
That we belong.
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