The same ugly thing

Is under this sun along with that

Rapturous jewel, that fragile

Fragrant bloom, that explanation

And that unsayable question too.

The smell of filth

Is made of the same vapors

As mother’s milk, and ecstasy

Is subject to the same tides

Of ceaseless respiration

As nausea, boredom and indignation

And the weakness that I

            Or anyone has displayed

Is of the same hand made, the same

Bench upon which is hammered

The stuff of us, from gathered and scattered

Remnants once thought of with purity. 

But surely even gold on its own is too soft for

Any application beyond admiration, and the

Work of the world demands - demands all.

            Look at where the shadows fall:

One side bright and loved by light

The other dark and real and right.