Blessed be my roots:
weaving the Boy a fine cradle,
they hovered Him just above Hell.
Yes, bring on the beautiful saw—
I will it. Dead
I will live forever.
Today my stillborn children sleep between a billion breasts,
& crusade-shattered splinters—
downed like so much autumn fruit—
doze glass-beneath from Rome & back again
and He is risen. He,
Carpenter’s Son. I,
Nativity of Rings.
Ladder To Many Windows.