Sea Forge (2004)

My forge is down the boughs
of an esplumoir rooted
in a sea I’ve never found --
a crannog, if you will,
where I shoe the waves
of song. From this white
chair in any suburb’s
drowse at predawn’s
pause before spring
I tong the iron bones
of time into my heart
and hold them there
this while, feeding blue
fire, unlocking drowned
spires; and hammer
here cauldron-plates
and grailing cups
which neatly fit these
black hooves two margins
wide. Then slap haunches
of what will not shut up,
and watch the next
poem ride wild toward
the next soft bosoming
isle. An old tide rocks
the upper branches of
this aerie, dreaming of
You again. Down here
where nothing remains
the trunk descends
for miles, a cathedral
where dark is the pope’s
own hat, and whales,
ship-hulks, and all lost
songs choir. Your forge
is fiercest there, inside
sweet Thetis’s underwear,
the abyssal lass whose
pale salt ass ends
every draft with her
exiting, exulting Amen
-- white wings beyond
the door under the sea
which no words have
ever cupped, much
less seen. So I toil on,
merry in my motions
even if no one ever
cares to know. Oran sang
for fifteen centuries
down a well now lost
to time. Certainly these
white mares I shoe in
this salty blue crannog
will gallop over crashing foam
to one day find You coming home
this day only,
or perhaps forever.