In the Hollows: Poem

In the Hollows


His face
Held like clay
In his hands
Breathing sobs
Some sobs dissolving
Some inner hardening

Bleating waters
Bleed up from under the stone
Encircling and enveloping
Its hairy outline
Massaging its turbulent lies
Smoothing its compacted silence
Unwinding its thick

Master hands
Hands holding features like clay
Withstanding the crushing
Pressure of hands
Too sure
Too violent.

Whose hands hold me?
My understanding is scraped
Away like the curding red mud
My eyes are undone and recomposed
And undone and reformed again
And again.
In an instant
My nose is made
Long like the Philosopher
Short like the Monk
Robust like the Clown
Hard like the Scholar
Red like the Poet
Daring like the Lover.

I wish I had no nose
Nor eyes.
Only the foolish fire in my heart
Which scowers the hollows
Of my mouth and
Only to sing
Out from the center
Of a sculpture
Not yet known.


Christophr C. MacDonald


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