Of cathedrals we write in stone
Bearing lemons and grapes in baskets lashed
To our backs—hammering at the
Stone like masons from unseen cities, times.
Always hungry. Even when we empty
Wide bowls that bend the oak
Table with their weight—even when the wine has bubbled
Up to our gullets. Even as our hair
Is blown clean by salt-wind from seas
We sail on more peaceful days, on longer days—
Always smelling the warm wet wood
As though the ocean has just been born.
O we’ll hammer, carry, feast, and sail
Until we can’t do one. And then we’ll cease
Them altogether—incapable of everything
Quite suddenly. Afraid of nothing but days
Swollen with time. Days that balloon to block
The sun and the voices of those who call to us
Asking what can they get us now—what do we want
Now that we’ve stopped, now that we’re resting.