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.