Artisan

In workshops without light

we have made birds

that do not sing

kites that shine

but cannot fly

with the speed

by which light falls

in the throat

of delicate working fire

I thought I had discovered

a survival kit

buried

in the moon’s heart

flat and resilient as turtles

a case of tortoise shell

hung

in the mouth of darkness

precise unlikely markings

carved into the carapace

sweet meat beneath.

I did not recognize

the shape

of my own name.

Our bed spread

is a midnight flower

coming

all the way down

to the floor

there

your craft shows.