Pinned to minutes and the clock gone mad,
Round and round its stranger's face,
Round the hours sane as grace,
Round landscapes of strangers,
I go ghosted and gone in the flying dark
And this strangeness has no end.
I'd be lost if I could be found,
If found unlost at last I'd nail the heart
Home with the hammer of the soul.
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;
Let hands build chapels as they move,
Wanderers wide round stranger and sky
In this strangeness that has no end.
Now I wander through 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.