Atonement Of Art

will you look at what I made
soft wood and sharp blade
without plan or hint of a plan
except those impermanent
currents and etchings in my mind

a fragrant wood and beautiful
grain oil and even the noise
the tip of the blade took
from it in courses and chords
in an otherwise silent room

the scent my god, the scent
working into my fingers my palms
oranging then browning to almost
black, darker than the wood
dark almost as the oil in my heart

pieces carved out carved free
freed from a pillaresque blank
new life running with syrup
beads unlike tears or drops of blood
new limbs taken from dead wood

dovetailed and notched the work
done in rhythm curls and flakes
slivers of anatomy piled deep
around my naked feet warming
my iron toes making them sweat

that wood taken from the whole
a block cut from near the heart
span of flesh grown for generations
thoughtless, emotionless, just breath
and blood and growth until killed

to be reduced then reassembled
kept free from the ground, the Earth
each new spar and phalange smoothed
twisted warped by the implaccable
edge of the blade made to perform

then the blade set aside to watch
to smile that singular smile all tooth
no lip, no mouth, only hunger that edge
as the pieces it formed at the hand
of a man came together in joints

groins and joints and buttresses
this thing like a fretwork forest
bigger than a man’s head though
certainly smaller than his ultimate
impact upon an indifferent world

this thing I built I leave for you
stained dark, rubbed and re-rubbed
with the blood of itself and those hands
approved by the blade a new heart
remade by one whose original was black

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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