Take a linen cloth and screw it up, wring it tight until the fabric tears,
peel it long and lay it perfectly upon the rock.
Beaten, slashed, crushed, stabbed –
there is nothing in this world so damaged
that it cannot be repaired by the hand of Almighty God,
and this is quite a surprise, the inverse of our given laws.
Take a broken door, kicked and smashed to the egg-box core, and
unscrew it. Lay the new one gently on the grass,
and that is where I am, with one adopted son, him burst.
Grace, too, breaches – violence, the draw of love.
What holds a son of anger who breaks a frame?
What frame holds a son who breaks the anger?
We take a power-plane to work the beads, he and I,
carpenters today, and drill the catch;
blowing chips that clog the cavity.
We, God’s workmanship – not the door, which is poor workmanship –
we are built into a dwelling;
and this is quite a surprise, given how badly all the pieces fit.