Pinned to minutes and the clock gone mad, Round and round its stranger's face, Round the hours that ache for grace, Round landscapes of strangers, I go ghosted and lost in the flying dark. If found unlost at last I'd nail the heart Home with the hammer of the soul, Let hands build chapels as they soothe. But no nail shines, no hammer moves, No home comes kissing from a cloud. Strip the gilding from the stars, Let hands tear down the dark dim griefs That moored the heaven-faring lights-- Wanderers wide round stranger and sky In this strangeness that has no end. Now I move in my cool body's shroud Distant as touch in a statue's hand, A blownback bit without sail or keel; No nail glows, no hammer moves. Hands were made to fashion as they feel.