Some men, who collaborated self-consciously
with killers behind a one-way mirror darkly,
catching their breaths on every errant wind,

On a wooden platform in the center of the room
The young dancer stood, her naked feet in position:
The man would rather gaze at her white feet forever
Than ever hold them in his hands, paying her well

They see the hand of John the Baptist, kept,
a bit of sallow skin and withered flesh,

We wondered, Have we already been punched
into this world’s time clock often enough
to earn the preservation of a family tree

“Even stone rots,” stone seems to say

They are not hard to get to know:
6 and 9 keep changing their minds,
8 cuts the most graceful figure
but sleeps for an eternity,

I’m the one who corrects the blurred
bodies, those grown uneven,
out of focus with

The gardeners gazing through their open shears
Or staring sightless from their wooden ladders
Stand helpless by and dream they cannot lower

Poetry’s “impulse, like electricity, crossing the space, leaves its signature.”
            —W. S. Graham

No wonder that a flash of sparks
Spills out from what I touch—the LaserJet,

Brimming with static shock,
Suspends invisible electron-clouds

Across the laser-paper’s Radiant White
To print “The Windhover”

Electrostatically—
Hopkins’ creation-poem, spelled out

There is a resonance in stone. 
Just put your ear against the grave of one 
You hated because love was difficult to bear.